The Pack Survives
by ange1christine
Summary: A bastard. A broken thing. Jon Snow belonged not to his family, or to anyone else. Not until they had named him King. But, perhaps he could belong to her...if she let him. JONxOC
1. Chapter 1

**Hope you enjoy! :)**

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An icy wind whistled meekly through the trees. It was cold, even for the North, biting at his face and freezing in his beard like the drops of widow's tears. Jon Snow pulled his chin to his chest, bustled his furs closer around him, and continued his trek.

The stairs creaked below him, an ominous and comforting sound. His gloved hands brushed against the stone walls of the tower as he went on his journey up, up to the top of the world, his father used to say. But Jon had stood on the top of the world, and this view did it no justice.

The sun had not yet risen over Winterfell, and the trees looked like black, macabre claws, pulling against the moon. Plumes of smoke rose in the west, gray against the black of the dawn. The scent of the burning dead men had long been carried away by the wind, and before he had gone to give himself to sleep, a man had asked him if he should crush out the embers. "Best to leave it, just to be sure," Jon had said. The man had nodded and left, and Jon paused until he was sure he was alone to shudder. Yes, he would leave the embers burning until every bone is blackened to dust, to be safe.

His boots crunched softly in the snow as he slowly meandered the battlements of his home, his eyes peeled for any movement. The castle would begin to wake and stir soon enough, but he was glad for the few moments of peace. The dawn was quiet, but as the pink of the sun began to show through the forest, he heard a rustling by the open door.

Ghost padded out to greet him, silent as the grave. He was so quiet that Jon scarcely believed him real, save for the prints his monstrous paws left in the snow. Real spirits did not leave footprints, he thought, and he knew Ghost had made a ruckus as not to frighten him. Jon pulled off his glove and reached out a hand, and his wolf met him with the top of his head. Jon's fingers sank into his fur, warming them instantly. Ghost did not make a sound, but Jon could feel the vibrations of his contentment. "Come to say good morning before you run off again?" Jon murmured softly, his voice sounding hoarse. How long had it been since he had last used it?

Ghost shuffled closer to him, lending his warmth, and staring out across the parapets with his master. His ears swiveled this way and that, his nose tasting the morning. He was alert, on edge, watching the horizon, but for what?

"What is it, Ghost? Is something coming?" Jon cleared his throat so that he may sound stronger. His wolf turned to look at him then, and red eyes burned into black. An understanding passed between them. No one knew what came for them at Winterfell, but the two of them would face it together.

"Go on, then," Jon said, smirking and pulling at Ghost's ear. His wolf looked at him again, and he seemed loathe to leave. "Go on," Jon said again, waving him away, "go and have a good romp. Kill something for me." Ghost leaned into his master once more, and then he was gone, slinking down the stairs like a great white shadow. He appeared again, far below, darting through the broken gates and taking half the field in a single bound. Jon watched him disappear into the trees as a flock of crows ascended into the sky, screeching their displeasure at being disrupted.

Jon smiled slightly and leaned out on the battlement again. He felt the sun spill over his face, welcoming its slight warmth, but soon another chilling breeze came and washed it away.

Jon flexed his shoulders, an uncomfortable feeling twisting in his gut. His hand traveled to his chest, and down, skimming over his black leathers. _One, two, three, four, five,_ he counted, feeling the slightly raised skin of his scars. _I did what I thought was right, and I got murdered for it._

Jon shuddered and gasped, gulping the frigid air into his lungs, as his own words came back to him. He wondered how many more times he would make the honorable choice, and another voice in him questioned how many more times he would be killed for it.

Soft footfalls woke him from his reverie, and Jon turned to see his squire fidgeting in the doorway of the tower, hands clasped behind his back. Dennas Mormont was a slight, weasel of a boy, nigh on fifteen years old and cousin to the Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Isle. Lyanna had asked Jon herself to give the honor to her cousin, and he could not say no to the little Lady. The boy's mouse brown hair was tousled, flat on one side and poking up in all ways on the other, his eyes blurred with sleep. He was still nervous around Jon, so he smiled, his eyes gentle.

"Good morning, Dennas," Jon said, his tone like he was speaking to a feral cat, "does someone have need of me?"

Dennas shivered, his hands still clasped behind his back. Jon imagined his knuckles white.

"A raven came for you this morning, y-your Grace," Dennas stammered, focusing on Jon's face, somewhere around his nose. "It was given to Lord Seaworth, he awaits you in the throne room." It was all Jon could do not to snort. If Davos had heard himself called 'Lord Seaworth', the frightened boy would never live it down.

"Thank you Dennas, that will be all," Jon said in a more clipped tone, "fetch my breakfast from the kitchens, would you, and pick something up for yourself as well."

The boy bowed, and turned on his heel, jumping down the stairs two at a time. He was growing on him, Jon thought, though Dennas was a little too submissive for his taste.

Jon took one more long look at the land before him. The sun had risen fully and was shining over the snowy hills, giving them a sheen like a million million diamonds rotating in the light. The beauty of it was short lived, as thick, black clouds soon came to devour the sun and what little warmth it brought with it.

He walked slowly across the yard of Winterfell, his boots kicking dust from the frozen earth. Everywhere he turned, the people bowed, inclined their heads, muttering "your Grace" in his presence. They had named him King, but he felt no more than a forlorn bastard in this place he had called home.

The castle of Winterfell was always warm. As Jon meandered through the twisting halls, he pulled his furs from his back and slung them across his arm. The doorway to the throne room loomed over him, and before he entered, he took pause.

The little light of the morning shone through the great iron windows, glancing across the rough wooden longtables that lined the sides of the hall. The great chandelier was lit with a hundred candles, their flames dancing across the walls like shadowcats chasing their prey. Jon drank in the familiarity of the place, feeling evermore the outsider, looking in on what should not be his.

His throne, for lack of better name, was but a tall wooden chair with sloping sides, and a roughspun cloth to cushion it. It seemed to stare at him from across the long room, foreboding and inviting.

Jon felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, too fast. His sister was standing there, her blue eyes wide with caution, lips parted in surprise. "Sansa," Jon said in a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief, "forgive me, you caught me by surprise." Her fiery red hair was twisted away from her face, held in place with black iron pins. The rest of it was braided in a thick plate down the middle of her back. The dress she wore was of blue fabric, with the gray wolf of the Stark house emblazoned across her chest. Sansa laid an ungloved hand on his arm. "Of course," she said, placating, "no, forgive me, I should not have approached so quietly, the Gods know you've been jumpy as of late."

Her smile was dazzling, surely she meant it only in jest, but Jon realized that his sister was right. He had been tense, on edge, flinching at every shadow for the last several days. Everyone moved about him with the air and ease of safety, but Jon knew better; their safety was only temporary, and more danger was to come.

But for Sansa, Jon smiled, and offered his arm to her, which she gladly took. "Did you sleep well, sister?" He asked, escorting her past the long tables, under the blazing chandelier, to the head table. She paused for a moment and then said, brightly, "I did, yes. And you, brother?"

Jon wondered idly if he should lie. Sansa, however, got there first.

"Or, perhaps, did you spend your night wandering the keep again?"

Jon smirked, eyeing Sansa briefly. He knew by her grin that he need not answer.

Jon released her, pulling the throne-chair out for her to sit. Sansa paused. "That is not a chair for me, Jon, as I am not a king." Her tone was playful, but he saw a flash of something else in her eyes. Before he could decipher what he was seeing, Sansa grinned again, pulled out the smaller chair to his right, and sat. She patted he arm of the throne-chair, willing him to take it.

With an air of reluctance, Jon sat in his throne-chair, and almost immediately Dennas was there, placing his food in front of him. The rough metal plate was filled with bread soft from the oven, the crust still steaming. The cooks has outdone themselves. Blood sausage swam in a thick gravy, and a rasher of bacon float atop it like a raft. Jon nodded to Dennas in thanks, and began to pick apart the crust of the bread. They ate in silence for a few moments, Sansa delicately tasting each food in turn, complimenting the cooks as they came round to ask if the she needed anything else with which to break her fast. Ever the highborn lady, Sansa refused. When asked, Jon let out a garbled "it's good" through a heaping mouthful of beans.

Davos Seaworth came to him then, ever the bedraggled middle aged man he was. He stopped at the head of the table, bowing both to Jon and Sansa, before he spoke.

"Your Grace, my Lady," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. Jon nodded at him as he fit another hunk of bread slathered in gravy into his mouth. Would he ever become accustomed to being addressed as so?

"A raven came this morning," Davos said, his voice uncertain. Jon looked on at him, exasperated. "So I've heard," he said after he had swallowed his mouthful, "give it here." Davos gave pause, his brows, peppered with white hairs, drew together. His reluctance put Jon on edge. He sat straighter, his hair standing on end. When he turned to his friend again, Jon's eyes were stern.

"Ser Davos."

The smuggler sighed, deep in his chest. From his maimed hand he produced a sealed ravenscroll, but before Jon could take it, he spoke again.

"You should know, your Grace. This scroll comes from King's Landing."

Jon felt his teeth turn to stone and his blood to ice. It was then that Jon saw the seal, pressed into wax red as blood.

The lion of Lannister.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry it took a while! Here's chapter two :) Enjoy!**

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Jon felt the air rush from his lungs like a dam bursting. He was vaguely aware that Sansa was gripping his arm like a vice, her nails digging into his leathers and leaving marks like half moons.

Jon stared at the scroll for a moment more, willing his limbs to move. His arms felt heavy as the branches of the great weirwood tree. Davos was watching him expectantly, the scroll still in his outstretched hand.

"You...you have to open it, Your Grace."

"I _know_ that!" Jon's voice was sharp, snapping like the jaws of a wolf into its prey. Davos rocked back on his heels, faltering slightly. "I meant no offense, your Grace," Davos said, his tone as clipped as ever.

Immediately, Jon felt shame. It was often that he forgot where he was raised, in the home of a lord, and he should behave as such. He sighed, cursing his years in the Night's Watch amongst the reavers, rapers and murderers that had once been his brothers.

"Apologies, Ser Davos" Jon said, and the man before him just nodded his head once. Jon reached out and took the scroll from him, his hands steadier than he felt.

Sansa had been silent as the grave through the entire exchange, her fingers still digging into Jon's arm. He pulled himself from her grasp and her hand stayed, frozen like a branch in the dead of winter. Jon clasped it in his, jerking her gently. Her eyes flew to his, blue gazing into black. Today they were an ocean full of fear.

Tenderly, as if it were a flagon full of wildfire, Jon cracked the little red lion in half. He cleared a frog from his throat, praying that his voice stay steady. Aloud, he read:

 _"To the bastard of Winterfell and false King Jon Snow,_

 _I have taken the seven kingdoms, as the right to them is mine by default. I am claiming the North in the name of Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm. But for you, bastard, I have a proposition you may find most appealing._

 _Bring me your traitorous bitch of a sister, Sansa. She must face justice for her hand in the murder of my son._

 _Bring her to King's Landing within the next moon, kneel and swear fealty to me, and I will name you Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and a bastard no longer._

 _If you deny me this request, I will bring my army to your gates, crush your silly stone walls, and kill you both myself."_

Jon's throat felt like the sands of the Red Waste, burning as he swallowed. Davos was watching him, eyes piercing into his very core. But it was Sansa he turned to, searching her face. She had turned to him as well, but her mouth was set in a wary line.

"Jon..." she began, but he raised a hand and cut her off.

He was hasty, reckless, and more than anything; terrified. Their men were weak from the Battle at Winterfell just only a week ago. But he knew Cersei was right, that he was a bastard, and bastards rarely had to err on the side of caution. With deft fingers, Jon tore a strip of parchment from the bottom of Cersei's letter. He sent Dennas in search of a quill and ink, and when the boy returned, he sealed their fate, one way or another.

 _"Come, then."_

Jon signed with a flourish, barely waiting for the ink to dry before he rolled the scroll together and passed it to Dennas again.

"Seal this, and choose the fastest raven,"

Jon told him, his voice stern. Dennas nodded, bowed, and fled he room like a man who had just seen the dead walking.

"Jon!" Sansa gasped, gripping his upper arm again, "don't! We don't have enough men, they've not recovered yet. We don't have enough food for a siege, I'll go. I'm not afraid..."

Jon shot his sister a chilling look, his jaw set in a tight line.

"The Others take Queen Cersei," he spat, "I promised you I wouldn't let them touch you again, Sansa, and I meant it."

Jon put his hand on her shoulder and she clasped it in both of hers. Jon idly recalled so many years ago, it seemed like a lifetime now, he and Sansa had lived in the same hearth but they had barely known each other. Only the gods knew what had happened to Bran and Arya, and the thought of Rickon put an uncomfortable lump in his throat. They truly were the only ones left.

"I'll be damned," Jon growled under his breath. He stood, throwing his furs across his shoulders in a violent flourish. "Davos," he said, turning to his friend, "find me Tormund."

Jon burst through the broken gates of Winterfell, his breath mingling around him like a cloud. He pulled the icy air into his lungs, drinking it in like the blood of life. Flurries of snow had begun to trickle down from the sky, but the black clouds against the horizon threatened more. He scanned the trees, wondering where Ghost had gotten to, suddenly needing him close more than ever. _'Where are you?'_ He thought, feeling more alone than he ever had before.

And suddenly, there he was. The hulking white wolf appeared at the edge of the trees, stark against the darkness of the godswood. His red eyes bored into Jon's very soul, searching. He took the field in three bounds, winding around Jon's legs like a cat, pushing his head under his master's hand. Jon sank his fingers into the thick fur around Ghost's neck, falling to one knee. "You were right, boy," Jon said, his voice barely more than a whisper, "they're going to come for us."

Ghost cocked his head to the side for just a moment, before he pressed his forehead against Jon's, their hot breath mingling as one in the frigid air.

Ghost followed Jon as he entered the great castle again, where Tormund and Davos were awaiting him. Sansa sat between them, her hands cupped around a mug of steaming hot sweet wine, her face pale and cheeks slightly flushed. Jon had never seen her drink wine before, and idly wondered when she had acquired the taste.

Dennas was posed by the door, and fell into step behind Jon as he entered the great hall. Jon could not help but feel a wariness about him; his eyes searched shadows for monsters that were not there. No, the monsters were leagues away, in King's Landing, and yet he felt them closer than ever.

Jon leaned forward and placed both hands on the table in front of him, poised to speak. Suddenly he felt Dennas' presence behind him like a weight, and he turned curtly to the boy.

"Dennas," Jon said, his tone falsely light, "go to the kitchens for me and see that they set aside some fresh venison, so that Ghost might break his fast."

The boy nodded once, and strode from the room, looking more confident than he had earlier in the morning. Ghost lay across his feet, licking clean the blood and flesh from his claws from that morning's kill. He hoped Dennas would not notice. Jon waited until he heard the wooden doors close before he turned to his companions.

"There is a traitor in our midst."

Sansa's face grew paler, but Tormund was the one who spoke first.

"Show me this man," he said, his hand traveling to the axe at his belt, "I will give you his skin as a rug for your hearth."

Davos glared at their compatriot reproachfully, but said nothing. He looked to Jon, his expression impatient.

"Someone has sold our secrets to Cersei Lannister," Jon said, his face grim, "someone who sat in this room when you all named me king."

Davos' mouth formed a thin, displeased line. "I fear you are right, your Grace," he said, his words heavy, "but what do we do with this traitor?"

"Kill them."

It was Sansa who spoke this time. The three men turned to face her, as if they had just noticed her there. "My lady?" Davos said, unsure.

"We kill them," Sansa's voice was cold, hard as iron, her eyes steel. "There is no other payment for this betrayal. The men in this room are to be your trusted bannermen, to sell the secrets of your King is treason punishable by death."

Tormund nodded fervently in agreement, his hand resting on his axe again. Davos could not even deny her this.

"Yes," Jon agreed, "but how many men were in this room? A hundred? And how many of those men whispered the secrets in their tents, how many ears heard? How do we pick one traitor out of a thousand? Ten thousand?"

Sansa bit her lip so hard that it turned white. She eyed her fidgeting hands. "Well," she began, "Ramsay had his ways..."

Jon shot her a look that froze her on the spot. His mouth went slack for a moment in surprise. "Sansa, no," he said, his tone full of disgusted wonder, "I won't flay these people on a cross."

It was Tormund who spoke next, running a callused finger over the head of his axe. "The lady speaks truly," he said in earnest, "if these men think you are weak, they will have you dead before the snows begin to fall. The long winter is not a time for weakness."

"Compassion is not weakness, Tormund," Jon almost spat, remembering himself. Tormund Giantsbane has become one of his closest friends as of late, despite their different upbringings. Means of torture must have seemed the norm to the Wildling, who eyed Jon as if he had seven heads. Ghost did not open his eyes, but rumbled low in his throat, sending soft vibrations up Jon's legs. Jon ran a hand over his eyes, exasperated. Sansa looked down at her hands again, chewing on her lip. Jon recalled that Arya used to chew on her lip that way, when she was plagued and worrisome. He sighed.

"We must speak no more of this," he said, standing straight. He looked to each of the people in front of him, in turn, meeting their eyes. These were the ones he trusted the most, these people and his wolf. Perhaps they were the only ones he trusted in this world. "It's not safe," he continued, meeting Sansa's glance, "matters of importance will be discussed only with the people in this room, do you understand? No one else." Sansa nodded.

Jon ran a hand over his eyes again, feeling more weary than ever before. He was sure the raven had been sent with his message to Cersei, and that meant that their time was running thin.

"The Lannister army will be on us within a moon," he said, "and we are no better than the sick and the old. Our numbers are bolstered with the help of the Knights of the Vale, to be sure, but we don't know how long Petyr Baelish plans on allowing us the use of them." Jon's eyes traveled to Sansa, who met them steadily.

"Lord Baelish has declared for House Stark," Sansa said simply, as if those words solved all their problems. "Lord Baelish has declared for many houses, my lady," Davos said, "and all of them are now dust."

His words sent a chill down Jon's spine. Sansa said nothing, her face stone.

"I have fifteen hundred men," Tormund cut in, watching Sansa and Davos warily, "good fighting men. The rest are women and children, the sick and the old. The unblooded boys requested to fight, with some training, they could bring the number back to two thousand."

The Wildlings had chosen Tormund as their leader, the King Beyond the Wall. But they had crossed the wall, and the favors Tormund owed to Jon had long been paid.

"Will you fight with us?"

Jon trusted Tormund with his life, his second life, but as he waited for his friend's answer, moments dragged into an eternity. The only sound Jon could hear was the blood pulsing in his ears, his heartbeat in his throat.

Tormund stared at him, unabashed. "I would hand you my life, Jon Snow," he said, "but some of my men distrust you southerners. They think you mean to lead us to slaughter like animals." His words were biting, but Tormund had not meant it to hurt him. Jon nodded. "I understand," he said hoarsely, "I understand that I cannot ask them to fight for me without earning their trust. I led them over the wall, I fought to save them at Hardhome, what else do you propose that I do?"

Tormund stood straighter, his hand gripping his axe now, a source of comfort.

"You can take my daughter to wife," the fire-haired man said, "isn't that how you southerners do it? See it done, Jon Snow. The free-folk know that no man would dare betray his woman, and you are not the man to do it."

Jon could not hide the fleeting look of surprise that crossed his face. He blinked once, twice, and then cleared his throat.

"These are your terms?" He asked, giving Tormund a chance to perhaps change his mind, to ask Jon to chop off his hand, something less...terrifying. But Tormund only nodded, ever silent, blinking at him.

The words came from his mouth slowly, like he had to wrench them free of a slick puddle of oil swallowing him.

"I will do it, then," Jon said, "I will take your daughter to wife."


	3. Chapter 3

**This one may be a little long...enjoy! :) xx**

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Tormund clapped Jon on the back so hard that he felt his bones rattle. He laughed once, a booming sound, and he shook Jon slightly like a rag doll. "Very good, Jon Snow," Tormund said, almost shouting, "I shall bring her to you tonight. You should be wed as soon as possible, but I'm sure she'd like to look at you first."

Jon attempted to smile, but his face felt frozen in a wordless grimace of horror. Sansa was watching him, her face impassive. Tormund bound from the room, his massive furs giving him the look of a bear bounding after its next meal. Davos shifted uncomfortably, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'll, er...get a count of the men, your Grace," he said haltingly, and then all but ran from the room.

Sansa and Jon were left alone then, watching each other, neither knowing what words to speak to find absolution for their situation. They sat for a while, Jon braced against the table, in silence. Finally, Sansa reached forward and patted his hand, saying, "We all must to do what we must, Jon."

He wanted to point out the obvious nature of her statement, but Jon bit his tongue. He only nodded, silent, fear broiling in his gut. "I've done it twice," Sansa said, "at least you had the right to say no."

Jon felt shame wash over him like a hot wave. "I'm sorry, Sansa..." he said, trailing off, unsure what to say. Sansa only smiled wanly. "I'm sure she will be beautiful," she said, and Jon could not help but picture Tormund in a dress. He shivered. "I shall hope for that small comfort," he said, an uncertain grin stretching his stiff lips. "Perhaps you will grow fond of each other," Sansa said, ever hopeful, "like father and mother."

Jon's soft glimmer of hope was stomped out like an errant flame. "Catelyn was not my mother," he said, not as sternly as he felt, "Gods bless her but she never loved me as a son. Tormund must have lost his mind, marrying his daughter off to a bastard with no name."

Sansa glared at him, her eyes full of reproach.

"You are the only one who cares that you're a bastard, Jon." Her voice was hard as stone. "You are a king. You have a name. Your name is Snow, and now that you have this power, you can make it into anything you like it to be." She softened, squeezing his hand. Jon could only nod again, for any words would betray the lump forming in his throat. "Well," she said then, her tone all light and air, "I had best go and choose a gown for this royal wedding." Sansa smiled at him again, reassuring, before striding from the room, all red hair and purpose.

Jon stood for a while, leaning against the great wooden table, until his hands turned white from gripping its edges. Ghost inched ever closer to him, laying across his boots like a heavy white blanket, sensing his unease. Jon thought grimly that he had gained a crown, but his free will had been stripped away to make room for it.

Jon walked slowly back to his chambers, Ghost padding along silently at his side. He watched the flames of the torches flicker against the stone walls of the castle, ice forming and then melting just as quickly as it had come. He fancied that sometimes, he could hear the hot springs working their waters through the walls of Winterfell, like lifeblood coursing through a body. But what if she didn't _like_ him? Jon thought it a childish and trivial thing to think, but...what if? His brother Robb had always told him that he was prettier than half the girls in Winterfell, but Jon had never had to worry about impressing a woman before. Not until...

He slammed his fist against the door of his bed chamber, rattling the wood on its hinges. No, he could not be plagued with thoughts of her now, not today, not before he faced this. Ygritte had been in the back of his mind since the night of her death. She was right, he knew nothing; nothing but that he did not know how to stop missing her.

John jumped at the sound of a knock on his door. Dennas poked his head inside, eyes downcast, a deer shank the size of his torso cupped in his hands. Ghost rose to sniff it, gently pulling it from the boy's hands and trotting over into the corner to devour his second breakfast. Jon gave the boy a clipped smile. "Dennas," he said, "I think I'd better have a bath."

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The hulking black she-wolf watched the red bearded man trudge through the snows. She had been watching him from the moment he left the stone castle, waiting for him to return. She enjoyed watching the people bustle around the keep, ears perked and listening. The white wolf called to her sometimes, more now often than not, but she never let him near. He followed her about the woods, staring at her as she sniffed the great white tree, tailing her every step. Today she had killed a deer and let him eat from it when she had finished. As Tormund grew nearer, she bound to the edge of the trees to greet him.

"Hello, you beast," the man said, gruff but gentle. She knew he could not help but be wary of her, but she would not hurt him. The man stooped lower, gazing into the golden yellow eyes of the she-wolf, and whispered, "Are you in there?"

She gasped, blinking, her vision blurred. The roof of her tent came into view, the dark hide flickering in the light of the fire. Enrin sat up quickly, her furs tumbling from her shoulders. Tormund entered the tent then, shaking the flakes of snow from his fiery red hair. He grinned at her, and she bit her own grin back.

"How do you always know?"

Tormund gazed at her, eyes rolling.

"You think I can't tell my daughter's eyes from a wolf's eyes? I have been on this earth longer than you and I have seen many more things."

Tormund strode across the tent to lay an affectionate hand on her dark, almost black hair, brushing it from her face. "What did you see?"

Enrin sat straighter. "I saw the white wolf again. Night even let him eat from her morning kill," she said, unable to hide the excitement from her voice. At the sound of her name, the she-wolf perked her ears. She loped to Enrin's side and lay her head in her lap. As if on cue, six fat wolf pups tumbled into the tent, barking at yapping at each other. Night sighed affectionately as they took to her swollen teats; Enrin could feel her discomfort abating. Night hated to be away from her pups for too long of a time, and yet never refused Enrin when she asked to use her eyes.

Her father nodded, pulled off his thick gloves, and then sat across the fire from her. Enrin felt a creeping sensation of dread, leaking from him like oil. Against her will, her eyes squinted.

"Do you have something to tell me, father?"

Tormund twisted his gloves in his hands. Enrin felt that he was nervous, so nervous that she could almost feel his teeth grinding against his jaw.

"I have asked Jon Snow to take you to wife and he has accepted my offer, to strengthen the bonds between these southern twats and us free-folk." The words tumbled from his mouth, rushed, and he tensed, awaiting his daughter's reaction.

Enrin had gone hot and cold at once, her scalp prickling dangerously. Night opened her eyes and growled low in her throat.

"You did this without asking me?" Her voice was breathless and full of rage, lips pulling back over straight white teeth in a snarl as fearsome as her wolf's. "Father, how could you do this thing? How dare you? Like I am some maid these southern buffoons breed to trade for land and fucking _livestock_?" Her words were biting, but Tormund did not flinch. He held up a hand, placating, and said, "Enrin, my girl, you are a princess now and this is what the princesses of the south do."

It was all Enrin could do not to fling the burning embers of the fire into her father's face.

"I am NOT a southern princess," her voice was low, grating, her teeth clenched, "I was not a princess until a few days ago. And now you are selling me to this king for what? So I can sit in his stupid stone house and raise his bastard children?" Enrin got to her feet, pulling the hood of her furs over her dark hair. Tormund made no move to stop her as she stepped around him, flinging open the flap of the tent. Her feet carried her like a raven on the wind, deep into the godswood.

In the safety of the quiet trees, Enrin slowed to a walk. Night kept pace with her as the pups stumbled behind, fat gray lumps of fur leaping from one stone root to another.

She could feel her rage seething out of every pore, weaving around her like a kraken with many arms. She all but flung herself down on a slate rock jutting from the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. The pups milled about her feet, sensing her distress. She lifted one into her arms, a plump little male, and held him close. She wondered if she should name them.

Tormund appeared through the trees, axe in hand. Night grumbled, but made no move. Her father smiled at her, scanning the horizon. "Have I ever told you how I met that mother of yours?" He asked, stepping over the pile of wrestling pups to sit by his daughter's side. Enrin watched him balefully. In truth, Tormund did not speak much of her mother. She only knew that they had married, and her mother had died in the birthing bed.

"We had come upon their camp," her father said, not looking at her, "her tent was the first one I meant to burn. I stuck my head in and was met with a spearhead." He chuckled, pointing to a faded white scar just above the line of his beard. Beside herself, Enrin smiled.

Tormund sighed, blinking the wetness from his eyes.

"She was all dark hair and stubborn," he nudged her knee with his, "I don't have to wonder where you got it from." Tormund reached over and took the wolf pup from her hands, stroking its head. The pup curled against her father's furs, under his chin. "When she died, I burned her myself," Tormund's voice was only a whisper now, "it killed me to do it, but I could not bear the thought of her coming back as...one of them."

Her father looked at her then, his eyes burning into hers. "If we do not tie ourselves with these southerners, Enrin, we will all become meat for the dead's army," Tormund said, his voice earnest, "If you really cannot bring yourself to marry this man, I will find another way for us, I will, but I know Jon Snow and he is a good man." He reached out, grasping her hand in his. Only then did Enrin realize how cold she had become. "He will not hurt you, I swear it."

Night stepped silently to her side, working her head under Enrin's arm. The girl sank her fingers deep into the wolf's fur, feeling her frozen limbs drink in the warmth. She and her father sat for a long time in silence, only the wind speaking to them through the trees.

As the sky turned pink, the sun setting across the horizon, Enrin turned to her father.

"I will do it."

* * *

Jon shook the furs of his cape, draping it across the fireplace in his chambers. The snow had soaked it almost to the core.

For the better part of the afternoon, he had paced. Ghost sat with him all the while, still as a weirwood tree, his red eyes following Jon's every step. Dennas had fetched him a steaming tub of water, and he had bathed until the water ran cold. He wore pants of thick wool, and a fresh tunic under a jerkin of black oiled leather. Longclaw was strapped at his waist, clanging noisily as he walked. A sharp knock on his door startled him and he jumped, whirling, as Dennas entered.

"Pardons, your Grace," the boy said, meeting Jon's eyes for the first time, "the King of the free-folk will be here shortly."

Jon gave him one nod, and then called Ghost to his side. He felt calmer with his wolf near.

Sansa and Davos were awaiting him in the throne room. Sansa had chosen a gown of crushed velvet, a deep emerald blue that brought out the red of her hair. She stood poised, hands clasped in front of her, smiling gently at him. Jon tried to return her smile, but panic roiled in his gut. He took his place to her left, between she and Davos. The older man greeted him with a small bow, but said nothing. It was now more than ever that Jon appreciated Davos' penchant for silence.

The wooden doors opened and Tormund came first, followed by three other men. He stopped in front of Jon and inclined his head. They grasped each other's forearms warmly. Tormund smiled.

"Jon Snow, my daughter, Enrin."

He stepped away and that was when Jon saw her, his breath sticking uncomfortably in his throat. She wore a gray fur cloak with the head of a wolf; it sat atop her almost black hair like a crown. The teeth, as long as Jon's forefinger, framed her face. Her eyes were so blue that they were almost white, her cheeks angled like her father's, but that was all Jon saw of Tormund in her. Her full lips were parted, wary, her hands dangling uselessly at her sides. She wore a tight fitting dress of rough-spun white wool, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hips. As she moved toward him, her hair brushed her waist, freshly combed until it shone.

Enrin stopped in front of him, her eyes searching his face. They were defiant, belligerent even, waiting almost impatiently to say something.

"My lady," Jon said, breathless, "if I may...you are beautiful."

She blinked at him, her face screwed into a grimace for a moment, before she cleared her throat and smiled gracefully, almost mockingly at him. "Thank you, Jon Snow," was all she said.

Tormund clapped his hands, whooping. "You see that, Jon Snow!" He moved forward to put his arm around Jon's shoulders, "she did not bite your head off, you see that!" Jon thought for a moment that his friend seemed relieved.

Ghost saw it before Jon did, his white ears pricking up. The wolf leaped to his feet at Jon's side, unmoving, excited.

Night slunk into the room then, and Jon saw Enrin's shoulders sag in apparent relief. The wolf wound itself around her waist, the top of her head brushing Enrin's ribcage. Sansa spoke for the first time, then, her voice barely containing her disbelief. "Is that a direwolf?"

Night's golden eyes fell on the red haired girl then, and Enrin felt her stiffen. "She wouldn't hurt anyone," she snapped, defensive, "not unless I told her to." As if on cue, Night reached her muzzle toward Sansa's hand, taking in the girl's scent with a long sniff. "May I touch her?" Sansa's voice was full of a longing wonder. Enrin only nodded, but said nothing. Sansa reached out to stroke the wolf's nose. "I lost my wolf," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, "they killed her for something she didn't even do." Jon saw Enrin's face soften. "I know what that is like, to lose a friend," she said, stroking the fur that she wore across her back. "Enrin's mate was killed, hunting a mammoth," the black wolf turned to her, medallion eyes sad, "he keeps me warm now in death as he did in life. His bones are buried north of the wall, where he truly belongs." Enrin bit her lip, and then gave a short whistle.

The six pups came tumbling through the doorway, snow still melting in their gray fur. Jon only watched, his dark eyes as wide as saucers. The pups milled about Enrin's feet, nipping at each other, sniffing at them in interest. Enrin stepped closer to Sansa then, gently reaching out to touch her hand.

"A gift for my new sister," she said, dutifully flickering her eyes to meet Jon's, "one of them is yours to choose."

Jon could not hold back his gasp of disbelief, and Sansa could not conceal hers of joy. "Truly?" She asked, as one of the female pups clawed at her skirt. Sansa took it into her arms, blue eyes gazing into the warm chocolate of the pup's. Enrin smiled, stroking the pup's head. "Truly," she said, "no girl should be without her wolf."

Tears filled Sansa's eyes as she clutched the pup close to her chest. Night looked on, calmly. "I do not know how to thank you," Sansa said, her voice thick. Enrin said nothing, only shook her head once. Ghost bent his head to take in the pup's scent, and Night pulled back her lips in a snarl. The two wolves regarded each other for a moment, before Ghost all but shrugged and loped away, across the great hall and out the doors. After a moment, Night followed, her five remaining pups tumbling after her. Sansa's pup had contented herself to laying in her master's arms, nibbling gently at her hair.

"That is very kind of you, my lady," Jon said, and red warmth crept into his face. "I would like to extend he invitation to join us for supper, if you and your father would do me the honor of consenting."

Enrin knew it was no more than a formality; Tormund had dined at Jon's table every eve since the battle. She searched his face for a moment, before giving him a tight lipped grimace, the ghost of a smile. "The pleasure is ours," Enrin said, bowing her head so that the eyes of the wolf stared into Jon's, unseeing. He fought a shudder.

"My squire, Dennas," Jon said, and a rail thin boy a few years younger than Enrin's twenty, stepped forward, "will show you to your chambers, my lady. I hope that they are to your liking. Please, if you are in need of anything...do not hesitate to seek me out." Jon's face was a polite mask, every inch the king they had named him. Enrin only nodded, and turned to take the arm Dennas had offered her. "This way, my lady, the walk is not far," the boy's voice wavered, betraying his confidence. As the doors closed to the throne room, Enrin could not help but to steal a glance behind her, to where Jon stood stoic with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. In that moment, she saw something flash in his eyes, but it was unnamable. Her face warmed. In that moment, against her better judgement, she thought that maybe she should not throw away all her hope. Not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

The boy led her through the castle's halls at a snail's pace, but Enrin had no qualms. She took the slow procession as time to take in her surroundings and get her bearings. The walls wept with melted ice, almost steaming with heat. She felt warm in her wolf's hood, and reached up with her free arm to pull it from her head, shaking out her long, thick hair. "Shall I carry that for you, my lady?" Dennas asked, reaching for her furs, but Enrin shook her head politely.

"No, thank you, it comforts me to keep it close."

"If it's not too bold, my lady, I understand how you feel," Dennas gave her a small, timid smile, "Coming here was the most terrifying thing I've ever done, but his Grace is a good and kind man. It is my hope that you will be happy here, with him." He was earnest, and Enrin thought that she liked him, shaky and weak as he was. "Thank you, Dennas," she said, unsure of what else to say. She wanted to believe that Jon was a good man like they had all told her, but she had met him only moments ago.

They stopped at a rough wooden door, with an iron handle. It was heavily bolted, but Dennas produced a key from the pocket of his tunic. "Yours, my lady," he said, and took his leave, bowing as he made his way back down the hall. The key made a scraping sound as she turned the lock, opening the door.

The chambers were large, with gray stone walls and a bed with fresh linens. A fur blanket lay at the foot, but Enrin had no idea what animal it had come from. What surprised her most were the candles; there had to be fifty, if not more, littered across her breakfast table, on the mantle of the fireplace, on the windowsill. She had expected her room to be dark and dank like the rest of the castle, but the flickering flames gave it a soft, comforting light. The fireplace crackled softly, chasing away the chill of the wind that whistled through the open window. Enrin thought to shut it, but liked the feel of the frigid wind on her skin. The flames on the candles danced this way and that as the wind touched them, sending leaping shadows across the walls. Enrin smiled softly.

She wandered to her table, where a basin of fresh water awaited her. It had once been steaming, but now was only warm to the touch. She washed it across her face anyway, wishing the water could slough away her doubts. She sat by her window for a while, the thick fur blanket wrapped about her shoulders. She heard Night howl, and the white wolf answered. The sound of wolves who had just made a kill.

Enrin wondered how long she had sat in silence. Her throat was dry with unshed tears. Her father had asked her to be strong, and so she would be; like the mother she had never known.

She stood and smoothed her dress, wondering now if she would have to wear one always. Enrin never realized how she had taken trousers for granted until now.

She squared her shoulders, smoothing her hair back from her face. She ran her fingers through the waist length tendrils, waking listlessly to her door. As she opened it, she almost barreled into Jon, who stood with his fist poised to knock. She yelped and stepped back, her boot catching on the discarded fur blanket on the floor. The stones rushed up to meet her, but as she came to terms with falling, she felt Jon's hand snag hers and he yanked her roughly to her feet. She fell against his chest, knocking the wind from both of them. They stood together for a moment, before she cleared her throat.

"You frightened me," she said, stepping out of his embrace and folding her arms across her belly. Jon shuffled his feet, abashed. "My apologies, my lady," he said, his voice gruff with embarrassment, "it was not my intent to scare you. I've come to ask for the honor of escorting you to dinner."

Enrin blinked at him for a moment, blinking and coming back to herself.

"The honor is mine," she said, more out of duty than real feeling, and took his arm. Jon pulled closed her door behind them, and began down the hall at a pace that feigned leisure. He cleared his throat, only to break up the silence.

"How did you find your room, my lady?" He asked, looking straight ahead, avoiding her face. Enrin was doing the same, chewing on the inside of her cheek so hard she thought she tasted blood.

"I found it very suitable," she said, "is all of Winterfell that well lit?"

She felt Jon's arm tense in hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blush creeping up his neck.

"No, I..." Jon shifted uncomfortably, his hand toying with the belt that bound his sword to him, "I...I lit them for you...the candles. I didn't know how many you'd like, and I didn't want it to be too dark."

It was Enrin's turn to flush, a warm feeling unfolding in her belly, spreading to her toes. She looked down so that her hair hid her face in a dark curtain, a smile biting at the edges of her lips.

"Thank you, it's very beautiful."

Jon turned to look at her then, his eyes shining with something she could not place.

"You're welcome, my lady."

Their eyes met, black gazing into gray, and then Enrin returned his soft grin, and they gazed at each other, unsure.

They stopped at the doors to the throne room, arm in arm, suddenly closer than when they had began their walk.

"You may call me Enrin," she said suddenly, her words tumbling from her mouth in a flurry, "if we're going to...to spend the rest of our lives together, you must be less formal."

Panic crossed Jon's face, reflected back in Enrin's frantically beating heart. The idea of their future terrified her to the very core, making her insides qual.

But then he smiled, and oh, it was a real, true smile. The cold tundra of his features broke, and it was like sun shone from his face, washing away the cold winter's darkness. She felt a warm feeling spreading through her chest, like summer thawing a frozen pond.

"As you say...Enrin," he said, his free hand reaching to cradle hers which grasped his arm. She bit her lip, and found herself returning his smile. Part of her wanted to turn and run, to flee into the forest to live with her wolves forever; but another part, the smaller part wanted nothing more than to share his bed tonight.

Jon opened the door to the throne room for her, and she had to release him to go through. No sooner did he step through the doors that her arm was in his again, and he pulled her closer without realizing he was doing so. Sansa, Davos and Tormund waited for them at the high table. The high lords bowed to them as they passed, milling about, hoping for favor. Jon released Enrin to her father, who planted a kiss on her forehead, whispering intently in her ear. Enrin only nodded, her cheeks pink, grinning.

A chair had been placed to Jon's right, where Sansa usually sat. His sister was next to the empty chair, and she sat smiling at him, blissful. The little gray wolf pup was curled in her lap, asleep, it's side rising and falling slowly. "Did you name it?" He asked, running a finger gently down the curve of the pup's ear.

"Winter," Sansa said, her hand gently stroking the pup's side. She stirred, but did not wake.

"I see the two of you are in better spirits," she commented, grinning wryly. Jon said nothing, but he knew his creeping blush said the words for him.

"Enrin," he said as she approached, and he pulled the chair out for her to sit. Only then did he take his seat. Dennas served him first, with a plate filled with steaming venison and small red potatoes roasted and dripping in gravy. The room was raucous with banter as they ate. Jon reached for his goblet of wine as Enrin reached for hers, their hands brushing in the light of the roaring fire behind them. As Dennas cleared their plates, it was Tormund who spoke first, pounding his first on the table.

"And so, Jon Snow," he all but shouted, and the room quieted to hear him speak, "when shall you become my son? On the morrow?"

He and Davos laughed, a jape, nothing more. Enrin and Jon locked eyes for a moment, and she shrugged.

"Aye," he said, watching Tormund's eyes go round as dinner plates, "on the morrow."


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the long wait! Life got in the way. Don't worry, we're back!**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Jon had led her back to her room that night, after their dinner was long over. They walked arm in arm, slowly, comforted by the company so that they did not need many words. When he bid her goodnight and kissed her hand, Enrin could not help but feel bereft.

A soft scratching at her door woke her from her reverie, and Night nosed her way into the room. Her pups followed, their tiny paws dragging in exhaustion. Enrin smiled, resting her hand on her wolf's head. She closed her eyes and relived her memories; the wind rushing through her hair as if she had run herself.

She lifted the pups onto her feather bed, and Night leapt up to curl around them. Enrin stripped off her gown and climbed in after them, pulling the fur blanket across her. The candles had long gone out and the fire only smoldered, leaving the room bathed in a dusky glow. She drifted, warm and comforted, her wolf's heavy head resting on her hip.

Xxxxxx

A soft knock made her stir as the morning light drifted lazily through her window. An aged woman poked her head inside, her eyes downcast. Enrin pulled her furs up to her chin, covering herself.

"Pardon my intrusion, my lady," the woman said, her voice creaking like an old tree, "his Grace bid me bring you breakfast. Would you like a bath? I can have a tub drawn." As the woman talked, she set a tray of crisped bread hot from the oven covered in honey, and a plate of figs and grapes. Enrin watched her, unsure of what to do. Night had opened her eyes and was watching the woman's every move, her eyes flickering this way and that. Enrin pulled the blankets closer to her chin. "I would appreciate a bath," she said, as the serving woman watched her expectantly, "thank you."

The woman bowed her head and left the room. Enrin reached for a hunk of bread, chewing thoughtfully. Would she ever get used to having people at her beck and call?

The woman returned shortly, a steaming tub being pushed behind her by a boy Enrin had never seen before. She thanked them, and had to dismiss the serving woman who had thought to help her bathe. "I can handle that," she said, waving a hand good-naturedly, "please, go and break your fast, if you haven't yet. I will be fine here."

The woman smiled, for the first time she had entered Enrin's room. "My lady," she said, curtseying as she left. Enrin thought that perhaps she should have asked her name.

The water in the tub was hot to touch, scented with rose oils that reminded her of the forest on a short lived warm day. She soaked in the tub, scrubbing every inch of her, watching her hair float like a dark underwater plant. When it ran cold, she got out, drying herself with a thick, rough towel.

She opened her wardrobe to find that someone had hung her meager belongings; thin leggings made of dyed cowhide, dresses and under garments that could have used replacing. She sighed, pulling a pair of fur lined black trousers down from the rough wooden hook. She chose a gray dress as well, if you could call it that. It was slit all the way to her hip, and half of the length chopped off to allow full use of her legs.

She dressed quickly, clasping her wolf's cloak around her neck. She laced her boots up her calf, whistling quietly. Night leaped from the bed, jostling her pups awake. They stretched and yawned, leaping from the bed with less grace than their mother.

The wolves followed her down the winding hallways, yipping and snapping at her heels. The doors to the throne room were open, light from the windows spilling into the hall. Castle servants bowed as she entered, and Enrin bid them a good morning.

Jon was at the head table, his cloak clasped at his neck. He poured over tattered maps, her father and Davos Seaworth standing behind him. Tormund looked perplexed, confused even, but listened intently nonetheless. Jon looked up as she entered, and there it was again; the sun burned beneath his skin, and he glowed.

"My lady," he said, hurrying around the table to offer his arm. Enrin took it, gently squeezing his forearm. Her father pressed his lips to her forehead as they neared, and Davos bowed low, giving her a reassuring smile. Her eyes traveled over the maps, grazing over cities she had never seen before.

"What are you looking at?"

Her fingers brushed over the hurriedly drawn castle of Winterfell, the ink rough under her fingers. Jon and Davos exchanged furrowed glances.

"The Seven Kingdoms," Jon replied. He released her arm to pull out her chair. Again the serving woman from her room appeared, a soft smile touching her lips. She filled a goblet with hot, sweet wine, and offered it to Enrin. She returned the woman's smile in thanks. The wine warmed her cheeks as she sipped.

"We are here," Jon said, placing his finger on The map at Winterfell, where Enrin's had just been. He drew a wide arc, and then a circle, with the roughly drawn castle in the middle, "and this is the North."

Enrin's eyes followed his hands, and she found herself wondering what else those hands were capable of. She cleared her throat and took another sip of wine to mask the pink in her cheeks. "The North is as big as all of the kingdoms combined," she said, her eyes taking over the other names there; King's Landing, Dragonstone, Casterly Rock. All of the kingdoms together could fit inside the north. "How have you been ruled for so long, from such a small castle, so many miles away?"

Jon found himself smirking. "I wasn't the one who made that decision," he said, his eyes in a far away place, "my ancestor, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen after Aegon's Conquest. They call him The King who Knelt."

Enrin watched him, her interest piqued. She took another sip of her wine, the sweet taste dancing across her tongue. She cocked her head to the side, pursing her lips.

"And you, Jon Snow?" She asked, her fingers drumming on the side of her cup, "would you have knelt?"

Jon pulled his eyes from the past, and met hers with steady determination. "That was a long time ago," he said, "and we do not kneel."

A smile touched her lips, and he returned it. She leaned forward, studying the map. The continents were broken up into smaller lands, lines jutting out like the crags of a mountain top, dividing one space from the other. Not like her North, the true North, where each land was free to the next person who claimed it. She would never understand these southerners and their boundaries.

"Well," Enrin said, finishing the last of her wine, "I had best not disturb you. I thought to go for a run with Night. I shall be no further bother."

She stood, brushing the cloth of her dress smooth. Jon came around the table, and took her arm.

"A run, my lady?"

She looked at him, perplexed.

"Do you not hunt with your wolf?"

Jon looked bemused. "I can't say that I've ever tried," he said, waiting for her eyes to fill with reproach. It was Tormund who guffawed loudly, hands on his hips as he rocked to and fro. "Give this southerner a lesson, girl," he said, placing a kiss on her head near her ear. Jon shrugged on his cloak, nodding to Tormund and Davos. The old hand looked troubled, now more often than not, and Enrin found herself wondering if that was just the way his face looked.

Enrin regarded Jon for a moment, and then strode purposely from the room. She heard his footsteps echo after her, scuffling quickly to keep up. She had seen his world, and now it was time to show him hers.

Jon followed behind her quickly, watching the fur of her wolf's head cloak fan out behind her. She walked with her back straight, but her legs languid, like a panther, almost silent in the dreary, dark halls.

She pushed open the great doors of the keep, the cold light of the morning spilling over the threshold. She turned to grin at him, her almost black hair billowing across her face. "Call your wolf, Jon Snow," she said, stepping out into the courtyard.

The snow fell in small flakes, barely reaching the ground. Frost covered the dirt like a winter spider's web, crunching as she stepped. She closed her eyes, her feet dancing over the ground, twirling in a circle. She had missed the fresh, frozen air.

The black wolf appeared like a shade, suddenly there in a space that was otherwise unoccupied. She sniffed at the edge of Jon's cloak, but ignored him, padding silently to Enrin's side. Her pups bound after her, winding around Jon's feet, nipping at his gloved hands. "They look bigger today," he commented, noticing the ever growing scruff around their necks. Enrin smiled, and greeted each pup in turn, tugging their ears and tails gently.

"Where is Ghost?" Enrin asked, her eyes scanning the newly bustling courtyard. Jon's eyes followed hers, scanning the edges of the walls, the open doors leading out into the field. "How am I to know?" He asked, not to her in particular. He had always given Ghost the free run of the castle and lands, so long as he did not kill any of the farmer's livestock in winter town.

Enrin cocked her head to one side, her face bemused.

"Don't you feel him?"

It was Jon's turn to look confused, his thick brows knitting together. " _Feel_ him?"

Enrin smiled, beside herself. "I have much to teach you, Jon Snow," she said , and then came to stand in front of him. She reached up her hands and placed them on either side of his face, her fingers tickled by the roughness of his beard. Jon was stiff, taken aback by her closeness.

"Close your eyes," she said, her grey eyes meeting his black ones, and Jon obeyed. He felt silly, standing in the courtyard, her hands caressing his face. After a few moments, he peaked one eye open again, asking, "What am I to be doing?"

Enrin scoffed, her eyes rolling, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

"Close your eyes," she told him again, resting her fingers on his temples gently, "let your mind go. Let it go to him."

Again, Jon obeyed, squeezing shut his eyes, screwing up his nose in concentration. They stood there for a few moments, Jon listening to her calm, soothing breathing, matching his own to it. He made to open is mouth to remark how strange they must look, how everyone must be watching them, but then he felt it.

Small at first, like trying to recall a smell long forgotten. Something familiar, that jogged his senses, but he could not place it. Jon felt Enrin shift closer, their chests almost touching, warm breath mingling in the frigid air. Shapes danced in the darkness, his eyes flicking this way and that behind his lids. He felt her with him, unobtrusive, lending her mind like a crutch to his. "Call to him," she said, and Jon could not help but almost feel her lips brush his as she spoke, his sharp intake of breath giving him away. Instinctively, he pressed himself against her, chest to chest, half expecting her to pull away. Enrin only returned the pressure

 _'Ghost,'_ Jon thought, and he could almost feel the wolf's ears perking in interest. Jon tasted blood in his mouth, savory, like metal. _'Ghost, where are you?'_

And suddenly, the world opened in front of him. The stabled loomed above him, horses stamping and snorting in protest of his presence. Beneath him, a foal lay dead in the hay, its legs rigid. It had frozen in the cold night. Blood seeped from a bite wound in its neck, congealed and and almost black, not he hot red blood of a fresh kill. He moved then, away from the carrion, he would find something more fresh in the godswood.

He carried himself to the trough, meant for horses. Thin frost covered the top of the water. Red eyes stared back at him, white fangs and a lolling tongue, bright snowy white ears perked in interest.

Jon felt the air rush from his lungs, and his eyes snapped open so suddenly he thought they might fall from his head. Enrin met his gaze, so close their noses touched. A current passed through them, hot and electric, sizzling through the air between them like lightning. After a moment, Enrin released his face, pulling herself back almost reluctantly. "You see, Jon," she said, her voice soft and gentle, like he might spook at the slightest noise, "you can have so many eyes."

Jon's breath came quick and harsh. "What did you do to me?"

Enrin took a step back from him, looking almost offended, her slim brows knitting together. "I did nothing," she said, her tone defensive and almost hurt, "the door was left ajar. I simply helped you open it."

Ghost appeared then, at Jon's side, nosing his head under Jon's arm. He looked at the wolf, almost eye level. Ghost's gaze was calm, inviting, as if to say _'Yes, finally, I've been waiting so long.'_

Jon moved his eyes to Enrin, who stood before him with her arms wrapped around Night's neck, almost using her as a buffer.

"Will you show me again?"

Her shoulders relaxed, and Enrin could feel her doubt leave her, like a vice releasing her chest. "I will, any time you like," she said, happiness coloring her words, "but first, we must run."

She whipped around then, Night and her children hot on her heels. She raced past the guards, bounding into the snow covered field, white dust kicking up after her. Ghost met Jon's eyes again, cocked his head almost in a shrug, and loped after them. Jon cleared his throat, looking about him as he started at a brisk walk, nearing the open gates. Enrin and the wolves had made it half way to the godswood by now, the trees looming before them like hands. "Seven Hells," Jon exclaimed, before breaking into a sprint, breezing past the guards and leaving their confused greetings of "Your Grace?" In his wake.

Enrin turned to smile at him, for a fleeting moment, before disappearing into the godswood like a woodland spirit.

Jon sailed past the trees and then slowed, his breath mingling about his head like a crown. His eyes scanned the trees, sunlight dancing through the branches. In the distance, a twig cracked.

Jon moved toward the noise, hiking his cloak up to avoid it snagging on the underbrush. He walked with ease, knowing where each and every rock jutted from the ground, covered by the snow. He had grown up in these woods, silently watching his father pray in the godswood, following the herds of deer to see how long he could go without being heard. Once when he was no more than five, he had followed them so long that it had grown dark, and his father had gone out with half the castle to retrieve him. Ned had found Jon sitting at the base of the great weirwood tree, nestled beneath its red leaves, sleeping soundly in the night. Jon treasured that memory of his father. After Ned had woken Jon, they sat together, both wrapped in his father's great fur cloak, watching the stars. Jon had asked about his mother, as he often did at that age, and he remembered vividly the look on his father's face. Ned had closed his eyes, only for a moment, and when he opened them, they were wet.

"We'll talk about your mother, I swear it," he had said, Ned Jon remembered exactly the way his voice had sounded, far away and close at the same time, "one day, when you're old enough, I will tell you everything." And now that Jon was old enough, his father was not here.

Jon entered a small clearing, where a break in the trees above made a halo of light, on one patch of dying green grass. Jon stared at it, almost in awe, as if he had forgotten what grass looked like.

The twig cracked behind him again,and this time, he turned too late.

Enrin hit him square in the back like a ton of falling bricks, and together they twisted, falling to the ground. Jon landed with a loud 'oomf' on his shoulder, rolling onto his back with cat-like agility. Enrin landed astride him, her hands pinning his wrists to the ground, her face inches from his. She laughed, breathless, letting the sunlight spill onto her face like golden rain.

"You are so slow for someone so young," she teased, her mirth echoing off the trees. Jon gasped as he sucked the air back into his deflated lungs, craning back his head to see her better. The sun shone around her like a shroud, the shadows leaping across her face as she shook her hair out, her wolf's hood falling to her shoulders. "Am I?" he said, and then suddenly her wrists were in his hands, and he rolled them so that his hips were positioned between her knees, and it was his hands now pressing hers into the soft grass. "I'm not so slow that I can't best you," he taunted back, and she laughed from deep in her chest. Their noses brushed together as Jon instinctively leaned closer, and before he realized what had happened, his lips had brushed hers briefly, barely a whisper. Enrin let her laughter die with a soft sigh, the air becoming closer and deeper between them. She watched him, lips parted, inches above her, wondering what the honorable king Jon Snow would do.

Jon could not let himself think his way out of this. In one fleeting moment, he lowered himself down onto her, his elbows on either side of her head, and his lips met hers.

Enrin leaned into him, returning his kiss with fervor. She had meant it to be a soft, chaste thing, and nothing more, but the moment their lips touched, everything changed.

The air around them seemed to flame, lightning passing between their lips. Her hands that had once been limp on either side of her head, found themselves into his hair, tangling into the roughly tied knot at the back of his head, to keep it from his face. Jon let out a soft groan, and she parted her lips to invite him closer. His tongue probed her mouth; shy at first, and then harder, all of the doubt about their first meeting melting away. He rolled them again, so once more she was astride him, his hips pressing into hers. She felt him then, against her belly, and she flexed her hips with a feather light touch against him. She mewled softly into his mouth, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her thighs, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to remain here, in the only patch of sunlight left in the world, forever.

Jon broke their kiss first, after what felt like an eternity, and pressed his forehead to hers. They panted together, fingers intertwined, the quiet of the forest surrounding them. It was Enrin that broke their comfortable silence first, however, resting her chin on his chest so that she could look at his face. "Should we move?" she asked, her fingers brushing across the cold, stiff grass, "Or can we stay in this place forever? You make it feel almost warm here. Build us a castle, Jon, and I'll hunt for our food." She felt his chest rumble beneath her as he laughed, the first true laugh she'd heard from him since they met.

"What, and live in sin? No, my lady, we have an appointment tonight with the heart tree." His eyes were shining with something Enrin couldn't place.

"Come then, you Grace," she said, only half mocking, rolling to her feet swiftly. She took his hand and pulled him up as well, placing one more chaste kiss on his lips, "we should find some food to feed our guests this night. Come, let me show you how to kill something."


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi! I wanted to get this one up quick for you guys! Just wanted to say how much I appreciate all your kind reviews and following/liking this story! I'm glad you guys agree with me; it's nice to see Jon acting his age and letting loose for once!**

 **Hope you enjoy! Next chapter will be up soon! :)**

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Enrin led Jon through the woods, all but silent, stepping over twigs and rocks without needing to see where to put her feet. Jon followed behind her, the wolves trailing his steps. He could see Winterfell through the trees, and wondered idly where Enrin was leading him.

The wildling camp came into view, fires smoking above the trees. The voices and laughter grew quiet as they neared, almost becoming whispers. Jon stuck closer to Enrin's heels, and Ghost fell in step with him, a low growl forming in his throat. Without stopping, Enrin reached back to grasp Jon's hand.

"Some of them still don't trust you," she said, idly, as if it didn't bother her at all, "they're stupid and suspicious, but they won't hurt you." She turned to smirk at him then, "especially not while _I'm_ here to protect you."

Jon gave her a smile as best he could, tight lipped and nervous. She stopped briefly at a rack of weapons, laid up by a fire. Axes, spears, and longswords were stacked haphazardly, rusting in the snow. Enrin reached for a bow and a quiver of arrows that had been slung over the post, the stone arrow heads glittering in the sun. Jon felt an icy grip envelop his veins.

Enrin led him past her people, through the embers of the smoldering fires, deep into the heart of the godswood. The wolves trailed them, near silent, save for the sound of their hushed panting disturbing the peace of the forest. It was darker here, the branches thicker, allowing less of the cold light to hit the floor. The ground was softer here, muffling their footsteps as they crept through the wood, a misfit pack of wolves.

Jon fell into step beside Enrin, one hand clasped around Longclaw's hilt. Old Nan had told him stories of the shadowcats that had once preyed in these woods, but the direwolves had chased them all away. Jon had never actually believed Old Nan's stories, but one could never be too careful.

His eyes searched her face, trying to discern what was going on in the mind behind it. Slowly, she drew an arrow from the quiver on her back, knocking it into her bow with smooth ease. Enrin's eyes darted to Night's, then to Ghost's. Both wolves weaved through the brush, Ghost east and Night west, the pups slinking after both of them like gray shadows.

Jon opened his mouth, to sigh, to ask her where they were going, but Enrin raised a hand to silence him, pressing a finger to her lips. Her storm gray eyes met his, for a moment, then flickered to the front of them, toward a gap of trees in a thicket. Jon's brows furrowed for a moment, until he heard them; the soft sounds of flat teeth chewing, the thud of hooves digging in the snow to reach the cold grass beneath it. The longer Jon watched, the more shapes became clear; five, ten, twelve deer stood before him, their coats long and shaggy, steaming in the frigid air. The air was so tranquil that he could hear the wind whistling through the great stag's antlers as he grazed on the snowy outcropping, above his herd. The ears of the beast swiveled this way and that, listening for a threat, but detecting none. Enrin crept ever closer, Jon close on her heels. They both held their breath as a gentle breeze lifted the leaves, making the rustle. And suddenly, she moved.

Jon had not noticed that she had raised her bow until the arrow was sailing through the air, the fletching singing in the slipstream.

The single arrow struck the stag in the eye, lodging itself between his antlers, the arrowhead poking straight through the other socket. The beast let out a sigh, almost peaceful, before it slumped to the ground, crimson blood melting the snow around it.

The herd panicked, fearful bleating filling air as the small clearing erupted into the sound of hoof beats. The doe scampered, one managing to escape into the trees, tailed by two fawn on long, shaking legs. The wolves moved then, fangs glimmering. Night slunk from the darkness like a living shade, her heavy paws making no noise on the soft forest floor. One doe, a hulking brown thing with a tear in her ear, feigned left, but the she-wolf was too quick. Night cut the doe off with one great paw, connecting with its head with a loud _thwack_. The doe crumpled, neck askew, blood trickling from her mouth. Night sank her immense fangs into the deer's throat anyway, as if to make sure it was truly dead.

Ghost followed her lead, slipping from the trees at the other end of the clearing, low to the ground. Surrounded on three sides, what remained of the herd darted, panic stricken, searching for an exit. Ghost chose his victim, and leaped.

Jon had never seen anything like it. The wolf was agile, light on his feet for a creature of such immense size. He landed on the back of one young stag, his jaws snapping through his antlers like twigs. A _crack_ echoed through the field, and suddenly the hind legs of the animal were limp. Both wolf and stag tumbled to the ground together, a flurry of white and brown. It managed to let out one last bleat of terror, before Ghost clamped his fangs into it's throat, blood spraying across his snowy fur.

The frightened hoof beats died down as the herd one by one gamboled out of the clearing, the stench of blood thick in the air. Jon released the breath he had not known he was holding.

"Have you never watched him hunt before?" Enrin asked, her voice light with wonder. Jon could only shake his did not yet trust his voice.

"It's beautiful," he said finally, barely a whisper. Enrin took his hand as they moved into the clearing. The pups had already come forward from their hiding places, and were tucking into the hind quarters of the doe their mother had killed. Night lifted her yellow eyes, meeting Ghost's red ones for barely a moment, before he dragged the limp carcass of his kill and laid it at Jon's feet and slunk off across the red snow to join them.

Enrin had reached the great stag, who sat like he slept in the snow. She braced one hand on an antler, before pulling the arrow out of the beast's skull, wiping the thick blood off with a handful of snow. Jon watched, in awe, as she knelt down and placed a kiss on the stag's nose saying "thank you."

"You're good with a bow," Jon said, his voice wary, and Enrin could sense his discomfort. She looked up at him, eyes shrewd, letting the stag's head loll to the side.

"You've had an air about you ever since I picked up this bow, Jon," she said, not accusingly, "you can tell me what it is about, or you can brood about it silently, but I am taking the meat back for the feast and it would be a lot less difficult if you would be so kind as to help."

Jon's eyes widened in surprise, but he reached down to grip the antler of the stag. Enrin reached above her to pull down a branch of the pine tree, and Jon helped her to drag the body onto it, fashioning it like a sled. Each holding the branch, they began their trek back to Winterfell in silence.

"I knew a girl who shot as well as you, once," Jon said after a few long moments, his voice echoing off the darkening trees. Enrin said nothing, but waited for him to continue. Jon took a deep breath, holding for a moment, before letting it out and squaring his shoulders. "I once saw her shoot a hare through the eye from fifty leagues away."

Enrin watched only her feet, no longer bothering to be silent. The snow crunched beneath her boots.

"And you loved her?" She asked, her words weaker than she would have liked. The idea of Jon Snow loving another woman sat with her in distaste, and she couldn't help but screw up her nose at the idea. She snuck a glance at him through the dark curtain of her hair, searching his face. He stared only ahead of them, a sad smile playing across his lips that did not touch his eyes.

"I did," he whispered, and his words were so heavy that they sank as low as Enrin's stomach.

They strode in silence for what felt like hours, until Winterfell came into view between the branches. The sun was low now behind the walls, and Jon realized they had spent hours out in the forest. It had felt no longer than moments.

"She's dead," he said suddenly, stopping so suddenly that Enrin nearly toppled over the branch she held. He reached out to steady her, cupping the top of her arms on both sides. The stag dangled, forgotten for a moment. "She died," he said again, as if confirming it for himself. Enrin opened her mouth, and then closed it again, unsure of where her words would take her. They regarded each other for a moment, still as statues, the wind whispering to them.

"I burned her myself. She was killed in the attack on Castle Black. A girl of the free folk, like you. Her name was Ygritte."

Jon had not said her name in only the gods knew how long; it felt foreign on his lips. It sat heavy on his heart, but not so heavy as he had thought.

Enrin blinked up at him, her full lips turned down in the corners, frowning.

"I didn't know her," she said, finally, after a beat. She chose her words deliberately, slowly, unsure of how to convey the storm of thoughts in her mind. "I don't ask that you forget her," she said, her teeth pulling at her bottom lip, "I know that she still has a place in your heart." Enrin lifted her eyes to his then, so gray they were almost white moons glowing in the creeping night.

"All I ask is that you might make room for me there, too, one day."

A smile broke Jon's face, lending light to the dusk. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him, resting his lips against her hair. The closeness that had felt so strange to him only this morning now felt comforting.

"Yes, Enrin," he said, his hands stroking her back through her dress, "for you, of course. There will be room for you."

Her cheeks reddened as she leaned into him, pressing her cheek to the hollow of his throat. This vulnerability was alien to her; she had been with other boys, but never a man. Never someone who warmed her heart rather than her bed.

They stood together for mere moments, the sky turning orange around them with the sunset. It was Jon who broke the embrace, adjusting his grip on the branch. Together, with soft smiles, they pulled the stag to the kitchens, so that preparation for the feast may begin.

Xxxxx

The door to her chambers creaked loudly as she opened it. She turned, and jumped, a soft yelp escaping from her throat.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Sansa said, her red hair like fire braided into a thick bun at the base of her neck. Her dress was slate gray, with a wide leather belt covering her waste. Soft badger fur adorned her sleeves and shoulders, a thick, dark metal chain around her neck. Her blue eyes were warm, inviting. Enrin lowered her hand from her throat, grinning wryly.

"Of course, my lady, forgive me," she said, wondering if she was being too cordial or polite.

"Please, call me Sansa," the girl said, her eyes soft, "there's nothing to forgive. I've brought you something."

Sansa gestured to the fur topped bed. She had laid out an intricate white dress, with long bell sleeves. Silver thread wound across the low cut neckline, white fur covering the sleeves and shoulders. It had been slit up the side, all the way to the hip, with swirling patterns like snowflakes sewn into the skirt. Enrin gasped, reaching out to stroke the soft fur on the sleeves.

"Sansa, its beautiful."

"I made some alterations," Sansa smiled at her, running her fingers down the slit at the hip, "I figured you'd like it more that way."

Enrin looked up at her, eyes shining. "You shouldn't have," she said, her throat thick, "it is too much."

Sansa reached out, slowly, as if frightened that Enrin would pull away. The girls clasped hands for a moment, silent.

"I had made it for my wedding, to Joffrey," as she spoke, Sansa's eyes were far away, in a different land, "I wanted something of my home with me in King's Landing. I can't say that I regret never wearing it."

Enrin poured them each a cup of wine from the pitcher on her breakfast table. As she offered it to Sansa, her hand shook.

"Are you nervous?" Sansa asked, taking a dainty sip. Enrin downed her cup in one gulp, and reached for another.

"What has given you that idea?"

They laughed together then, like two friends, discussing the weather.

"He's very fond of you, you know," Sansa said, and Enrin's eyes flew to her immediately, "everyone can see it. Jon doesn't warm to people like he's done to you."

Enrin sipped her wine this time, swirling it about her cup. "Fond," she said, feeling the word on her tongue. She set her cup down. Perhaps she should stop drinking.

"And you're worried that it will never be more than fondness?" Sansa watched her, wise eyes following Enrin as she paced about the room, her eyes raking over the elegant white dress on her bed. She looked at Sansa and nodded only once, afraid to speak.

"My mother and father were that way," Sansa sighed, leaning back against one of the bedposts, "they married, and my father left for the Rebellion. My mother had my eldest brother, Robb, and my father returned with Jon.

"I've only ever heard the servants talking about it in hushed whispers. Never much more than that, for fear my father would hear and turn them out. Mother wouldn't speak to him for days,weeks even. Every time she looked at Jon, she saw his betrayal."

Sansa looked at her then, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

"My mother loved my father. I can't say that she ever forgave him, but she loved him. And my father loved her. He was a good, honorable man every day after that. He treated her like a queen, even though she was just a lady. Jon is more like my father than anyone I've ever met."

Sansa reached to clasp Enrin's hand again, squeezing it tightly. "I'm sure you both will be very, very happy together."

Enrin gripped her hand in return, and took a deep breath. "I had best dress," she said, rubbing her palms over her knees. Sansa stood, and smoothed her dress. She reached for Enrin then and hugged her tightly, only for a moment. "I'll see you in the godswood," she said in parting, closing the door with a soft latch.

Enrin released her shaking breath, pulling her gray dress over her head. She kicked off her boots, peeling her leggings down to her ankles. She placed her hands into the cold basin of water on her breakfast table, splashing it over her face and chest. She pulled a soft brush through her hair, leaving it hanging over her shoulders, wild and untamed. She felt the dress staring at her from the bed, almost mocking her. _'Is this marriage a mockery?'_ She thought, pulling a fresh pair of fur lined black leggings up her legs, lacing them at the waist. Inhaling deeply, she slid the dress over her head. It fit perfectly, hugging what curves she had. The fur was impossibly soft, brushing across her face as she laced the front bodice of the dress.

Enrin looked down at herself, smoothing down the skirt. She pulled on her boots as there was a soft knock on the door of her chamber. "Enter," she called, attempting to hide the tremor in her voice with a cough.

Tormund stepped over the threshold, smiling as he saw her standing there in her white dress, and some of the terror that filled her throat abated. He opened his arms to her and she rushed to him, pressing her face into the fur of his jacket. "You bathed," she breathed, and they laughed together, embracing in the doorway to her chambers. "I've come to escort you to the weirwood tree," her father said, his voice more gentle than she'd ever heard it, "come, my girl."

She took his hand as they strode slowly down the dimly lit halls of the castle, saying nothing. Their silence was comforting, all things they needed to say being spoken in the tight clasping of their hands, father and daughter, facing an uncertain future together.

The courtyard of the castle was lit with a hundred torches, stuck into the snow in a makeshift pathway, leading to the mouth of the trees. Suddenly Night was at her side, slinking out of the shadows, falling into step with her. The great she-wolf pressed her fur into Enrin's side, and, thankful, she returned the pressure.

Hushed voices grew silent as they entered the trees, their path lit well in the darkness. The snow had stopped, and the stars twinkled in the inky sky, the moon smiling down on them. Enrin wondered if her mother was the one who chased the clouds away on her wedding night.

The lords and ladies of Winterfell all milled about, trying to get a good look at her. Sansa stood before all of them, the wolf pups all sitting in a line at her side, their small heads cocked in confusion. Enrin caught her smile and did her best to reciprocate.

She saw him then, standing beneath the tree with his back to her, watching the red weeping eyes of the weirwood tree. He turned as the voices stopped, and when Enrin saw his face she could have sprinted down the aisle to him.

His dark eyes were glowing in the night, his hair freshly combed out of his face and tied hastily in a knot at the back of his neck. Jon had traded in his black leathers for a shimmering silver breastplate, with carved direwolves in the sigil of his house on either side of his neck. His great fur cloak rested about his shoulders, clasped about his chest with a glimmering silver chain. Ghost sat beside him, his red eyes a following her, ears perked forward calmly. Enrin could not help herself but to think how beautiful and regal Jon looked, standing there beneath the blood red leaves of the tree, awaiting her.

Jon's mouth grew dry as she approached, clasping Tormund's had like it was the only thing keeping her steady. The black she-wolf strode beside her, her sun bright eyes watching him, but all he felt was peace in her gaze. The white of her dress made the snow around them look gray. Moonlight shone down from the sky, forming a crown atop her head, making her dark hair almost silver. Her downcast eyes met his, then, once more gray to black, as they came to a stop in front of him. Maester Wolken appeared then, from beside the great tree, his hands clasped in front of him as his chain jingled in the night. He cleared his throat, a small smile creeping onto his face.

"Who comes before the Old Gods?"

Tormund stood straighter, taking Enrin's hand in both of his. He took a deep breath, and said, as if he had rehearsed it: "I come to beg the blessing of the Gods for this marriage. Who comes to claim her?"

Enrin swallowed deeply, her lips parting as she breathed, as Jon stepped forward.

"I, Jon Snow, come to claim this bride. Who gives this woman away?"

Tormund raised an eyebrow, and Enrin knew exactly what he was thinking. These southerners and their boastful weddings.

"I, Tormund Giantsbane, bring my daughter Enrin, from beyond the wall."

Maester Wolken reached for Enrin's other hand, and she gave it to him stiffly, her fingers cold as ice. The maester's fingers were rough with calluses, but he was gentle with her, giving her a small and reassuring nod.

"Lady Enrin," he said, his voice soft, speaking only to her, "will you take this man as husband?"

Enrin opened her mouth to speak, and her words lodged in her throat. Her eyes searched he maester's face, looking for answers, for an escape. Suddenly she turned, facing Jon, and their eyes met.

He looked apprehensive, terror flitting across the back of his eyes. She wondered if it were fear that she would run. She saw his chest rise, his sharp intake of breath the only sound in the clearing beneath the tree.

"I take this man," she said, and in that moment she felt sure that if her feet took her anywhere in this world it would be where Jon went. Her fears melted away like frost in the heat of summer, and as she looked into his eyes she squared her shoulders and said again: "I do. I take this man."

Jon shoulders relaxed, his gut untwisting like a great tentacled beast. Maester Wolken patted Enrin's hand with both of his, but her eyes were only for Jon.

"Your Grace," the maester said, rounding on him, offering his free hand, "do you take this woman?"

Jon placed his hand in the maester's, pulling the cold night at into his lungs.

"I do," he said, his words almost reverent, a sigh of relief, "I take this woman."

Maester Wolken placed their hands together, and Jon entwined his fingers with hers, her skin soft against his.

"She is yours, and you are hers," the maester said, clapping his hands together once, "from this day, until the end of your days. By the Old Gods and the new."

Jon pulled her to him then, jerking her arm forward. Enrin gasped beside herself as Jon's free arm curled around her back. And then his lips were on hers, her heartbeat pounding in her ears like thunder in a summer storm. For one sweet moment it was just the two of them, melting into each other before the eyes of the weirwood tree, and it began to snow.


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter is SUPER rated R if you don't want to see it LOOK AWAY just kidding don't look away please read it, thanks love you bye! :)**

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The clearing erupted with raucous cheers, voices echoing off the trees, adding to the elation. In the back of her mind, Enrin knew these southern lords had not yet accepted her as one of their own, and that she would need to prove herself to gain their respect. For the moment, every one of them allowed themselves to be swept into the celebration of a royal wedding, putting aside the gnawing sensation of their enemies closing in from all sides.

Jon cupped her face, holding her to him, his lips hard on hers. Enrin knotted her hands in his cloak, for one sweet moment pulling him tight against her, and then they broke apart, breathless. They turned, arm in arm, starting slowly down the aisle, the torches flickering in their wake. Their wolves trailed behind them, white fur brushing against black.

They walked together, saying nothing. Enrin could think of no words to say that would express the emotions swirling inside of her. She turned to watch Jon's face, apprehension unfolding in her chest.

He felt her eyes on him and turned to look at her, the fear of his reaction plain on her face. Jon knew that he should echo her fear; of the future, of their enemies closing in and coming for their throats, but all Jon could feel in that moment was joy.

He smiled at her, his sunlit smile, and her face broke to echo his, and they entered the feast together, laughing.

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Dennas piled a thick slice of the venison she had killed this morning onto her rough iron plate, the juices from the meat splashing across the table. Potatoes and carrots swam in roasted gravy, and the wine flowed freely, making her cheeks pink and warm. Laughter echoed around them, japes shouted across tables of high lords and ladies, the torches and fire behind them crackling in a sound that reminded her of home.

Jon sat to her left, in deep discussion with Sansa. They spoke about the feasts of their childhood, with Jon shunned away to a table by the kitchens, eating with the children of the servants. A man that was introduced to Enrin as Ser Waymar Royce came to engage Sansa, bowing low to Jon, and almost completely ignoring her. If Enrin had been more sensitive, she would have been offended.

She watched Jon as he talked, his shoulders more relaxed than she had ever seen them, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughed. She reached over to push a stray lock of hair from his eyes, so that she could see them better.

Jon spun to face her, surprising coloring his smile. He reached over onto her plate, ever playful, snagging one of her carrots and popping it into his mouth. Enrin almost snorted, pinching a potato between her fingers and holding it up for him to eat. Jon leaned in and took it between his teeth, brushing his lips all the way down to her wrist before he kissed the palm of her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

Enrin squirmed in her seat, a delicious warmth unfolding in her belly. She chewed on her lip, wondering how long they had to stay at this feast before it would be polite to leave.

Jon seemed to echo her thoughts. His hands traveled deftly up her arm, then down her side, his thumbs skimming over her ribcage. It landed on high on her thigh, toying with the edge of the slit in her dress. His free hand reached for the underside of her chair and he jerked it toward him, spilling her almost into his lap.

"You haven't finished your supper, my lady," he said, his nose skimming her ear lobe as he whispered against her neck. Enrin arched into him, a breathy sigh leaving her lips.

"I'm not hungry for venison, my lord," she said, her tone half mocking, the wine making her bold. Jon pulled her to her feet as the minstrels began their new song, taking her in his arms. He spun her deftly around to the front of the table, the lords and ladies around them clapping and sighing gently at the new couple, sharing a dance. Several of them got up to join as the harps played their lilting, haunting song, and Jon swayed with her all the way to the open doors of the throne room. They twirled, Jon pulling her into a dark corner of the hall, their laughing stifled by the hand he held over her mouth. "Shh," he said, pressing a finger to his lips, "we're to be sneaking." Enrin laughed only harder as he took her hand and nearly sprinted with her down the winding hallway, dashing between patches of torchlight. He pulled her into a dark chamber, shutting the door behind them with a thud.

It was blacker than pitch, and Enrin could not see her hands in front of her face. Panic began to rise in her throat; she had never liked the dark.

"Jon," she said, reaching for him, for anything, in the darkness.

Jon struck a match, is face illuminated. He lit a thick white candle, then another and another, along the mantle of a great fireplace. He tossed the almost extinguished wick into the mouth of the fireplace, fanning the air so the wood piled high caught the flame. The rest of the room came into view then.

A high, four post bed fashioned from dark wood, covered in thick black and gray furs loomed in front of her. A long table on the far wall, beneath the window, was littered with maps and discarded scrolls, ink splattered across the stone. Cases of thick, leather bound books lined the wall on either side of the fire place, the light flickering across their titles. Jon stood before the long desk, hands limp at his sides, watching her.

"Are these your chambers?" Enrin asked, running her fingers over the warm melted wax on the mantle. Jon only nodded, unsure, awaiting her reaction. "Our chambers," he said finally, "I would have your things moved here tomorrow, if it please you."

Her head jerked up to him, failing to hide her surprise. She had not thought to share chambers with him so soon. The image of it did not frighten her as much as she dreamed it would.

She smiled, something small, entwining her fingers in the furs on the bed. "Bring us more candles," she said, a smirk dancing across her face, "and we shall be happy here."

Jon strode to her across the room, his arms wrapping around her waist. It was her that kissed him first then, her lips finding his as if they were always meant to. The lightning crackled between them again, and Jon deepened the kiss, a low guttural noise forming in his throat. Enrin's fingers found his hair, pulling it from the thin leather strap that tied it. The black curls tumbled about his face, brushing across Enrin's forehead. Jon's hand squeezed the soft skin of her waist, pressing them together at the edge of the bed. He pulled away from her, his breath coming ragged. "Are you sure?" He asked, black eyes searching hers, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. Enrin reached down with both hands, undoing one leather strap that held his breastplate to his chest. Deftly, she undid the other as well, and Jon lifted his arms as she pulled it over his head, the metal clanging as she discarded it on the floor. Her hands moved to the belt at his waist, the ties of his leather jerkin coming apart in her fingers. She stripped that from him as well, piling it on top of his breastplate, pulling his thin gray shirt from the waist of his pants. Her hands traveled up his sides as she removed that as well and there he stood before her, naked for all but his pants.

Enrin's eyes widened as she took in the view of his scars, thick, puckered pink lines marring the perfect skin of his chest and stomach. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch the one over his heart.

"I had known," she said, her voice quiet with tears she would not shed, "but...-"

Jon took her hand in both of his own, kissing her fingers. "It doesn't matter," he said, screwing shut his eyes to block the memories from his mind, of those men hanging there, blue, glassy eyes staring into nothing. Enrin gasped, shaking, and pulled him to her again. Their lips found each other, their tongues battling for dominance, her nails digging into the skin of his back. Jon moaned into her mouth, his lips finding her neck, teeth grazing over the soft curve. It had been so long since someone had touched him.

His fingers found the bodice of her dress, his lips leaving small kisses along the edges of her collar bones. Enrin threw back her head as he worked, reveling in the feeling of his cool lips on her hot skin. Jon bunched her skirt at the waist, his hands traveling farther and farther, stopping just below her breasts. He pulled away once more, his eyes questioning, loathe to move any further unless she was ready.

Enrin raised her arms, and he slid the dress over her head, revealing her nakedness to him. Jon's eyes raked over her body, hungry, his tongue flicking out over his bottom lip. She stood before him, arms at her side, allowing him to look his fill. The appreciation in his eyes filled her with boldness; this man thought that she was beautiful, and that was plain to see on his face.

She reached for him again, pulling him close, so their skin brushed together. Her lips found his neck and she traveled down, kissing each of his scars in turn, her breath light as a feather skimming across his skin. She sank to her knees, her shaking fingers fumbling with the strings of his pants. She unlaced them, one at a time, the ache in her belly growing ever more persistent. She could see him against the soft leather of his pants, ready for her, but she knew he would not rush her any more than she was willing to go.

She peeled his pants down to his ankles and he stepped out of them, nude in all his glory before her, and she watched him for a moment before taking him into her mouth.

The air in Jon's mouth rushed from his lungs as her lips closed around him, her tongue making quick work over him. His hands found her hair, winding it around his hand as she began to move, slowly, taking every inch of him. His breath hissed from between his teeth as his head rolled back on his shoulders. "Stop," he said, breathless, gently tugging back on her hair, "ah..."

She released him from her mouth, a playful smile on her lips as he pulled her up to meet him again, their mouths finding each other. Without breaking their kiss, Jon lifted her, pushing her down onto the soft furs of the bed. His hands found the laces of her leggings and he undid them quickly, hooking his thumbs at her waist and sliding them down her legs. Enrin sighed, opening her knees for him, as he flung her last remaining clothing behind him. His mouth found her breast, his tongue teasing her until a soft whimper escaped her mouth. He traveled down, torturously slow, before his mouth found her there. She gasped as his tongue made art against her, her fingers knotted in his hair. Enrin's back arched away from the bed, a moan escaping her throat, as Jon made his way back up her body, planting soft kisses in his wake.

He crawled atop her, pushing her backward so her head found the overstuffed pillows. He positioned himself between her knees, his elbows on either side of her head. Jon cupped her face with one hand, finding her eyes again, something there she could not fathom.

"Are you sure?" He asked again, and Enrin could only nod, her words once more failing her with this man who had entranced her in such a short time.

Jon took a breath and sank into her, their hips meeting like pieces of a puzzle.

Enrin felt a sharp pain and she gasped, pressing her hand to the small of his back to hold him still. It had been some time since someone had touched her as well.

Jon's breath was ragged, their noses pressed together, breath mingling in the night. "Have I hurt you?" He asked, meaning to pull away, but she held him firm. "Just..." she breathed, growing accustomed to the fullness of him, "slowly, please, slowly."

Jon tucked his head into the curve of her neck, and pumped into her once at a deliberately slow pace. Enrin sighed, her hand cupping the back of his neck. "Yes," she said, closing her eyes and surrendering to the feeling of him inside her, "again."

Together they moved, Enrin rising up to meet his every thrust, the ache in her abating each time they made contact. She arched her back to meet him harder, faster, his teeth finding her shoulder and biting her, hard. She felt herself rising then, locking her legs around his waist like a vice. "Oh, Jon," she sighed as she found her release, exploding around him like dragon fire, her nails raking down his back. Jon moved in her twice more, before becoming agonizingly still, spilling himself into her with her name on his lips like a prayer.

* * *

Her ears woke first, the crackling of the fire like music. She lay on her side, buried in fur blankets, her hair fanning out behind her like a mane. She reached to the other side of the bed, wanting Jon, but the sheets that met her were cold.

Enrin's eyes snapped open, and she propped herself up on her elbow, clutching the blankets to her chest. Jon was poised in front of the fireplace, leaning with one arm on the mantle, staring into the flames. The candles had burned down to stubs, the smoke still rising and curling into the air. He must have felt her watching him and he turned to smile at her, his eyes gentle. "Did I wake you?" He asked, ambling slowly back to her. She pulled back the blankets and he climbed into the bed with her, laying on his side facing her. His body was languid, his muscles relaxed, but there was a sharp edge to his eyes. Enrin reached out, brushing her fingertips across his forehead. "If you keep worrying so much you will look a man of eighty by your thirtieth name day," she murmured, shuffling closer to him. Jon let out a bark of laughter. "Already nagging," he muttered, feigning petulance. Their laughter died and they watched each other in silence for moments upon moments, the firelight flickering across their eyes. She would not push him to tell her what was plaguing him, she only reached out to him again, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing his fingers. She held it to her cheek, watching him lay ever still, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"The Lannister army is coming for us," he said suddenly, in a whisper, as if Cersei was there over his shoulder at this moment. Enrin only nodded. She and Jon lapsed into silence again, the roaring of the fire the only sound filling the room. Somewhere in the distance, they heard the wolves howl.

Jon rolled over onto his back, staring up at the dark canopy above the bed. "What is it?" She asked finally, propping herself up onto her elbow once more. Jon closed his eyes, a wrinkle forming between his brows.

"I'm sorry," Jon said after a beat, so quietly that Enrin had to strain to hear him over the flames, "I'm sorry that this union can't be what we want it to be, not yet. There is no happy ending for us now. We are at war."

He turned to face her again, his hand cupping her face. She only watched him, her eyes both trusting and apprehensive, her emotions toiling in her gut.

"But you bring me joy," he said, his thumb stroking her bottom lip, "you make me feel what it is like to be alive again. I'm not willing to let that go. I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me."

His eyes flashed, fierceness coloring his words. Enrin kissed the palm of his hand, holding it to her face.

"You think I would let these southern cunts take me from you?" She said, sliding closer to him. Jon folded her in his arms, dread spreading through his veins like ice. The way he felt for this woman terrified him, of what would happen if someone succeeded in separating them.

"No one can," she continued, resting her head on his chest, "not that bitch Cersei Lannister. Not the Others. I will put to flame anything that stands in our way."

Jon tightened his arms around her, pulling her close to him, pressing a kiss into her hair.

"Sleep, wife," he said, closing his eyes.

"I will sleep when you do, husband," she replied, swinging one of her legs over his and pulling the furs up to cover both of their naked bodies.

They lay in the quiet for a while, Enrin watching the shadows dance along the wall. Jon's breathing eventually slowed and deepened, a soft snore escaping his lips.

Enrin drifted, visions of direwolves and lions playing behind her eyelids, the beating of his heart like music to her ears.


	8. Chapter 8

**This one is a bit of a long one, just to say THANK YOU for all your kind words and support on this so far!**

 **Also, quick question! Would you guys prefer one big long story, or would you guys rather it be broken into two parts? Let me know how you feel! Thanks! Enjoy :)**

* * *

The pounding on the door woke Jon first, his bleary eyes taking their time to clear. He ran a hand over them, the canopy of his bed coming into view. Enrin lay across his chest, her breathing still steady with sleep, her hair tousled over her face. Jon smoothed it away, tucking it behind her ear. She looked younger somehow in sleep, more vulnerable. He could not help himself but to place a kiss on her forehead.

The door was knocked on again, more urgent this time, and Davos called out to him from behind the thick wood.

"Your Grace, I hate to disturb you," he called as the handle on the door began to turn.

Jon shot up, pulling the blankets to Enrin's chin, jostling her awake.

"A moment, Davos!"

She gazed at him with reproach, her eyes unfocused, as Jon leaped from the bed. He retrieved his shirt from the floor, tossing it at her, a small grin playing on his lips. She pulled it over her head, arranging the blankets so that they covered her waist. Jon pulled on his pants, leaving them unlaced, pulling his jerkin over his shoulders. "Come," he called, and the door opened immediately.

Davos strode through the door, his face his usual mask of malcontent, straight to Jon.

"Your Grace, I -oh..."

The old man's cheeks reddened above his beard. Enrin flashed him a smile, and said, "Hello, Ser Davos. Lovely to see you again."

"My lady...My Queen, I am so sorry for the intrusion," he said, his eyes downcast, flashing to Jon for a moment, "I had not thought..."

"There was something you needed, ser," Jon said, his ears reddening. He tied his hair back quickly with a leather strap, and Enrin could not help but let her eyes travel down his body as he stretched. Their eyes met and she cleared her throat, looking away and grinning.

"A raven came this morning, Your Grace," Davos said, his eyes wary, "from Dragonstone."

In an instant, Jon's tranquility transformed into alarm. His back straightened and his shoulders tended, reaching out with steady fingers for the scroll Davos had offered him. Enrin's heart dropped to her feet, his panic seeping into her veins. She was frozen as he cracked the red wax seal; a dragon with three heads.

 _"Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Firs of Her Name, wishes to invite you to Dragonstone. We have forces in Dorne, the Tyrell army, a fleet of Ironborn soldiers, a horde of Dothraki screamers and three dragons at our backs. My sister must be stopped. I ask the bastard of Winterfell to listen to the dwarf of Casterly Rock only once more, and I do look forward to meeting with him again._

 _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen."_

Jon rolled the scroll into a tight ball, his hands steadier than they felt. "Tyrion Lannister invites me to Dragonstone, to treat with Daenerys Targaryen. He is hand of the Queen," Jon handed the scroll to Davos, running a hand over his eyes as he often did when plagued with stress. Davos' eyes scanned the scroll, before he looked up at Jon, his mouth ajar. He made to throw the scroll into the fire but Jon stopped him with a hand on his arm and a shake of his head. Enrin's brow knit together.

"A Lannister," she said, tasting the words on her tongue slowly, "a Lannister invites you to Dragonstone? But I thought the Lannisters were our enemies?"

"Aye," Jon said, twirling the scroll between deft fingers, "they are. But this Lannister doesn't serve the others."

Enrin shook her head.

"And who is this Daenerys Targaryen? What right does she have to command you to do anything? You are the King in the North."

Jon sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in a long blink. "She hasn't _commanded_ me to do anything," he said, not looking at her, "she _invited_ me to treat with her. There is a difference."

Enrin looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed.

"So then you can refuse," she said, her tone feigning nonchalance, "and there can be no repercussions. Is that what _invited_ means, _Your Grace?_ "

She threw the blankets from her legs, rising purposely from the bed. Davos averted his eyes immediately, rolling them to the ceiling and rocking back on his heels. Jon rounded on her, nostrils flared.

His shirt fell to her mid thigh, almost to her knees. She padded on bare feet to him, gooseflesh rising on her skin. She snatched the scroll from his fingers as Davos looked on, almost in respect.

Enrin had taught herself to read long ago, from books her father had pillaged from raiding villages below the wall. She would steal away with them in the early hours of the morning, before the others could tear them up to use as kindling for their fires.

Her eyes scanned the words quickly, dancing over the elegant curvature of his writing. It was clear that this Tyrion Lannister was of noble birth and taught well.

"Dragons?" She said, her lips parting in surprise, "this woman has dragons?"

Jon swallowed the panicked lump in his throat, only nodding. Davos rocked on his heels again, and Enrin thought passively that it must be a nervous habit.

"We'll send a raven, respectfully declining," he said, reaching to take the scroll from Enrin's hands. Jon plucked it from between them, pacing to the window, gazing out along the snow covered battlements.

"Send a raven," he said, his voice quiet, "tell her I will sail for Dragonstone on the morrow."

Davos' mouth opened and closed in surprise, like a fish on land. "Your Grace," he sputtered, "forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but her father was The Mad King. Aerys burnt your grandfather and uncle alive-"

"I am aware of my familial history, Davos, thank you," Jon said calmly, turning to watch the snow again. Davos gave a disgruntled sigh, but said nothing.

Enrin's eyes were incredulous, her mouth agape. "And you're just going to _go?"_ She gasped, gripping his forearm to turn him to face her, "just like that? No question of your own safety? You'll just pick up and go at this dragon queen's word?" Rage filled her chest, seeping from her every pore like a Black Plague. Jon did not look at her, his eyes focusing somewhere above her head. She turned to Davos, her eyes a plea for help.

"Davos, tell him."

The man before her looked torn; he wanted to agree with Enrin, but his king stood before him, and only a fool told a king he was wrong.

Enrin was a fool.

"This is a horrible idea," was all she said, crossing her arms against her chest like a stubborn child. Anger showed on her face, but her heart was gripped with terror.

"Davos will accompany me, and you will be safe here," he said, his eyes still on the wall above her, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Davos only nodded once, holding his hands behind his back.

Enrin arched an eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. "You won't leave me here," she said, a laugh bubbling behind her words, "you're mad if you think I'll stay behind. We _all_ leave on the morrow, or no one."

Jon's eyes flickered down to her this time, fire burning behind them.

"You'll do as I say when it comes to this matter," he spat through gritted teeth, as if trying to keep his anger inside of him. Enrin almost snorted.

"I will do no such thing. You've heard me, Jon Snow. Either we all go, or no one."

Jon's eyes bore into hers, hard as stone. They glared at each other for a long moment, their jaws square. Davos cleared his throat, a small sound, and murmured, "Your Grace, I'll take my leave. We will discuss this at a later time."

The door swung closed behind him, and Jon threw up his hands, spinning away from her to pace to the fireplace.

"You undermined me in front of my most trusted advisor," Jon said, his words like ice, "and what does that make me look like?"

Enrin placed her hands on her hips, ire flaring inside her chest. "It makes you look like you need to be taught how to listen to reason," Enrin fired back at him, reaching down to snatch her discarded leggings from the stone floor. She pulled them on, hastily lacing them at the waist.

Jon whipped around and strode purposely to her, his hands balled into fists at his side.

"You will never undermine me like that again, not in front of anyone in the North," his words were low, his jaw clenched. Enrin squared her shoulders, her gaze meeting him full in the face.

"And you," she said, poking a finger hard into his collarbone, "you will never presume to think that I am a weeping southern lady that will meekly stay at home while you ride off to get yourself killed. Out there," she gestured wildly to the door, "out there you are a king. But here, in this room you are my husband, first and foremost. I would be lost if something..."

Enrin yanked her boots on, half lacing them to her knee. She felt a telltale lump forming in her throat, her lip quivering dangerously. She turned her face down, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. Confusion mixed with her fear and alarm, so unused to her emotions overtaking her so quickly. What had this man done to her?

Jon's face softened and he reached for her, meaning to take her hand. Before he could reach her, Enrin turned and quickly strode from the room, unable to look back as Jon called her name.

Enrin burst through the doors of the castle, the wind chilling her bones. She had left her cloak in her haste, Jon's thin shirt her only armor against the cold. As she strode across the courtyard, the people bowed, inclining their heads to her as she hurried past them. She reached out to Night in her mind, her lips too frigid to form a whistle.

The great black wolf appeared in an instant, her yellow eyes disapproving. The pups followed behind her, milling about her feet, and she reached down to scoop one of them up, burying her fingers in his thick fur. He pressed his head into the hollow of her throat, sharing his warmth.

Enrin almost ran into the godswood, the darkness enveloping her like a comforting blanket. She fled through the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest, tears spilling down her cheeks. What she had done had been hasty; but she valued her pride too much to let this man see her cry for him.

She ran for what seemed like hours, the icy air biting into her flesh. The wolves kept pace with her, brushing against her, attempting to add friction into her tired limbs.

Enrin's eyes blurred with tears again and again, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. The snow had begun to fall quickly, the flakes soaking her hair. She stumbled, her legs too weak to carry her further. Jutting stones rushed up to meet her, and suddenly the world was dark.

* * *

Jon flung his cloak about his shoulders, his mouth set in a grim line. He had searched the castle for hours; every nook and cranny in the great stone place had been scoured by him. Tormund watched him from across the table scattered with maps, his eyes crinkled with worry. Sansa sat with them both, long having given up her placating words. Dusk was beginning in the late afternoon, the snow whirling past the glass windows. Jon's eyes followed each flake, his foreboding mounting with every second.

"It's been too long," he said finally, pulling his gloves over his fingers, "I'm going to find her." Neither Sansa nor Tormund complained, only reached for torches from the sconces on the walls. Jon gathered a host of guards and began the trek into the field, his gut in torment.

Enrin's footprints had long been covered by the snow; it was up to Jon's knees by the time he had reached the edge of the trees. Tormund was beside him, his eyes wide. "We should split up, Jon Snow," he said, walking west. Jon sent the guards to the east as he went straight ahead, north.

The forest was darker than he ever remembered it, his torch providing little light in he blackness. The air felt oddly hushed, as he turned in a circle, shouting Enrin's name.

Far into the distance, a wolf howled.

Jon spun toward the sound, his feet carrying him as fast as he could manage through the snowdrifts. He stopped, and turned again, unsure of which direction he should be running. The howl abated, echoing from the trees, coming from every direction. Jon slammed his fist into a tree, his frustration and fear peaking. Panic made him reckless as he spun this way and that, trying to find his sense of direction in the night.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind search. The familiar sensation began again, easier each time he tried, and he slipped into Ghost almost easily, like a well worn jacket.

Suddenly he was at he edge of the trees looking in, his panting breath forming a cloud in front of him. He broke into a lope, his mammoth feet pulling him easily through the snow as it soaked the fur up to his belly. Together they lifted their noses to take a long drag of the wind.

Jon could taste her scent on the back of his tongue, as Ghost turned sharply and bound toward the smell. He weaved through the trees nimbly, his nose scouring the air again, the trail becoming clearer and clearer as he neared.

Jon's eyes snapped open as he spun, his legs carrying him like wings through the snow. He could feel Ghost rather than see him as he got closer, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

The white wolf stood over them, his nose pressed to the ground. Snow had piled over them like a great white blanket, and as they closed in, Night's eyes opened and she met them with a snarl. She stood and shook the snow from all of them, her body still half curled around Enrin as she lay on the ground. The pups had piled atop her body, nose to nose with each other. Jon propped his torch against a rocky outcropping and fell to the ground beside her, his hands shaking.

"Enrin?" He said, pulling her into his lap. Her body was limp and cold to the touch, her lips blue as frost. Blood matter her hair on the temple of her head, but her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm that brought tears of relief to Jon's eyes. Night watched him warily, her yellow eyes boring in to his. Ghost stood beside her, his nose against her neck, woofing softly. Jon snapped he silver chain of his cloak, pulling it from his back and encasing Enrin in it, pulling the furs up over her head. He hoisted her into his arms, turning to the wolves.

"Take us home, please, take us home."

All seven of the wolves turned at once, bounding across the mounds of snow like spirits, and Jon followed behind them as fast as his legs would carry him. He clutched Enrin to his chest, tears of fear stinging his eyes.

Winterfell came into view then, the light of the torches flickering in the night. "Tormund!" Jon shouted as he broke through the trees, "help me!"

Enrin's father was upon them in an instant, pulling his furs from his back and piling over Jon's cloak. "We must get her inside," he shouted over the roaring wind, taking Jon's arm and supporting some of his weight. Sansa threw open the doors to the castle as they neared, Jon rushing straight through. The winding hall to their chambers seemed ever longer as he ran, holding her head steady against his chest. "Fetch Maester Wolken!" He shouted as the guards prowling the halls rushed to assist him, the bowed their heads and sprinted off, not daring to give him question.

Tormund threw the doors to their chambers open and Jon all but fell inside, throwing the furs aside so he could lay her down gently on the bed. He pulled off his gloves, his hands weak and shaking, his fingers fluttering over he matting of blood on her hairline. Night pushed her way into the room, melted snow dripping from her fur. She shook herself twice before leaping onto the bed, her nose nuzzling Enrin's cheek. A soft whine escaped her as she lay her massive head on Enrin's leg, closing her marillion eyes with a sigh.

Sansa placed a hand softly on his back and he flinched, eyes wide, turning to gaze at her.

"Jon," she said, her hand resting on his shoulder, "you've got to calm down. Breathe."

He hadn't realized his breaths were coming in short, sporadic gasps. He looked down at Enrin, cold and lifeless beneath him, her skin pale and lips still blue. He took her hand in his, resting his forehead over her stomach, a silent prayer on his lips.

Maester Wolken appeared in the doorway, his chain hastily strewn about his neck. He rushed to Enrin's side, almost shouldering Tormund out of the way.

"We must get her out of these freezing clothes," he said, pausing with his hands poised over her, "Your Grace, if I may."

Jon could only nod, raising his head, his eyes wet. He stood, swaying, and Sansa caught his arm.

"Come, the both of you," she said, grip hard on his elbow, "we must let Maester Wolken work if we're to have any hope. Into the hall, I'll find some hot wine. Jon, you're like ice."

He slumped against the wall outside he chamber, sliding to the floor. Tormund paced beside him.

"I'm sorry," Jon murmured, his eyes closed, ears listening to the shuffling inside their chambers. Tormund stopped long enough to give him a withering look, before he continued to wear a hole in the floor. After a beat, he said, "Its not your fault."

He slid down the wall beside Jon, their shoulders almost touching.

"Ever since she was a little girl," Tormund began, "any time she is angry, or scared, she runs. She takes that damned wolf of hers and runs into the trees and you won't see her for hours."

He ran a hand over his beard, exasperated.

"She always came back hours or days later in better mind, but she would scare the life from me each time she took off somewhere she didn't want to be followed. You could not have known. She could not have known. The snows were too deep for her to see where she was going..."

Tormund broke off, covering his eyes with his hand. Jon watched him, numb, sharing in his grief the only way he knew how.

"What did you do that made her run this time?" Tormund turned to him then, a tear dripping from his severe nose. Jon opened his mouth to speak once, twice, before heaving a sigh.

"Daenerys Targaryen summoned me to Dragonstone," he said finally, his voice barely a whisper, "and I told her she had to stay here, to keep her safe."

Tormund laughed, a choked sound. "And you thought she was going to listen to you? You may be a king, but you are a stupid husband," Tormund laughed again, slapping his knee.

"Something you need to know about my girl, Jon Snow," Tormund said, "is that she will go with you whether you like it or not, and you shall never hear the end of it. Do you know how many times I tried to keep her at camp while I went out hunting and raiding?" Tormund's eyes were far away, in the past. "More times than I can count, Jon. And she always found her own way to come with me. To protect me, she said. You are hers to protect now," he clapped Jon on the shoulder, not roughly, "so you had better just let her."

"Your Grace," Maester Wolken interrupted them then, his eyes grave. Jon pushed himself up, his brain in a fog.

Enrin lay wrapped in his cloak once more, her skin still pale as milk by her lips no longer blue. Maester Wolken had cleaned the wound on her head, and pushed her hair back to reveal several stitches of white silk, holding the edges of her scalp together.

"Her temperature is very low," Maester Wolken said, his eyes distressed, "and she had lost so much blood by the time you had found her. She is breathing good, strong breaths. But..." the Maester trailed off, his eyes traveling from Tormund to Jon, flickering back and forth. "But I'm afraid we will not know the extent of the damage until she wakes...if she wakes."

Jon fell to his knees beside the bed, hollow. She looked so small there beneath all of the furs, her chest rising and falling deeply. Maester Wolken and Tormund hovered, unsure, as Sansa returned with steaming cups of wine. She forced one into Jon's hands, saying, "drink."

He lifted the cups to his lips, wine sloshing over the sides of the goblet from his tremors. He hadn't realized how cold he had become, even though the fire roared behind him.

"Leave me," he said, crawling into the bed beside his wife, "for a moment. Please."

The rest shuffled out from the room then, Tormund placing a kiss on his daughter's forehead as he went.

Jon watched her for so many moments, his breathing slowing to match hers. He spoke then, finally, after hours of watching her remain unchanged.

"Enrin...you have to come back to me. Please, you can't leave now. We haven't had time. Enrin...I...I love you."

* * *

 _"I...I love you."_

It sounded so far away, his voice. She felt him next to her, felt his breathing slow. The fire crackled around them, slowly adding life to her frozen limbs.

 _"I...I love you."_

Oh how she wanted to wake, to touch him, to shout at him _yes, yes I'm here with you_ , but her body betrayed her. Her hands lay dormant when they longed to be in his.

 _"We haven't had time."_

 _Of course,_ she wanted to shout, _of course we haven't had time, it's too soon. Please, I'm trying._

She sank below the wave of sleep again, her dreams frightful.

 _"...she still sleeps..."_

 _I AM HERE,_ she screamed, but her voice failed her.

 _"...Grace, you were meant to leave days ago..."_

 _"Send a raven, I won't go without her..."_

Her head throbbed, her stomach roiling.

 _"...been several days, Your Grace, you need rest..."_

A crash echoed across the room, a goblet raining wine against the stone.

* * *

Her legs ached. Her toes felt stiff as she flexed them, but gods be good, they were still there. Her fingers shook as she balled her hands into fists, beneath a mountain of furs. Her body burned under them, after days of remaining still, she longed to move.

Enrin's eyes fluttered open, the light pouring from the window assaulting her. She blinked once, twice, her eyes coming into focus.

He stood at the fireplace, throwing a fresh log into the smoking maw. He fanned it, turning quickly, stopping short when he saw her looking at him.

"Oh gods," he breathed, shouting for the Maester, sprinting to her side, "Enrin, please, can you hear me?"

She swallowed, her throat like razors. Jon poured a cup of water for her, holding it to her lips. She drank, the cool liquid bringing life back into her.

"Yes," she rasped, "I can hear you. Not so loud, please." She moved to sit, her arms shaking under her weight. Jon placed a hand on her back, pulling her up. He propped her against him, tucking his cloak closer around her shoulders to hide her nakedness. Her head swam so much that it turned her stomach, and she reached for the water again, hoping it would calm her gut.

Maester Wolken burst into the room, followed closely by her father. She gave him a weak smile, but simply sitting had made her so tired that she could not wave.

"My Queen," Maester Wolken said, sinking to the bed beside her, "may I?"

She only nodded, wanting to object to being called his Queen but finding no strength, and Maester Wolken cupped her face. He turned her head this way and that, made her follow his finger with only her eyes. He checked the wound on her head, his finger feather light.

"It is healing well," he said, leaning away from her, "do you remember anything at all?"

"Yes," she said, her voice paper thin, "I...ran. I was running, with the wolves. I stumbled," she nestled her head closer to Jon, who tightened around her. "I'm sorry," she began again, "I had not meant..."

"Shh," Jon hushed her, resting his cheek gently on the top of her head, "no more of that. You're awake now. How do you feel?"

She swallowed with difficulty, sipping what remained in her cup. Maester Wolken filled it for her again.

"I feel tired. My body aches," she shifted, every inch of her skin on pins and needles, "but I feel well."

Maester Wolken stood, his hands rifling in the pockets of his robes. He produced a small bottle filled with a milky, white liquid.

"Milk of the poppy, for the pain," he said, leaving it on the stool beside the bed. He made his leave, making her promise to call on him if the pain worsened.

Her father gripped her hand, kissing her knuckles. "Never scare me that way again, girl," he said, his voice trying to be stern. He kissed her again before inclining his head to Jon and slipping from the room, closing the door behind him. Enrin reached for Night with her mind, feeling the wolf pacing below her window. Calmness flooded her as Night heaved a sigh of relief.

Enrin tucked her head into Jon's neck again, sighing lightly. "I _am_ sorry," she whispered against his skin, reveling in the feel of him against her. Jon said nothing. She rested her head on him once more, listening to his breathing heave. She craned her head to look at him as a tear rolled down his cheek.

"Jon," she pleaded, pushing herself up to look at him. He tried to pull away, to hide his face, but she dug her fingers into his arms, holding him still. Their eyes met, and she could feel the torment of the last several days radiating from him. She stroked his face, pushing his hair away, wiping the tears with her thumbs. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice thick as oil, "I'm so sorry."

Jon pulled her to him, handling her as if she would break. He pressed his lips to hers, their kiss deepening, as their mouths ravaged each other. He pulled away when she winced, pain lacing through her head. He reached for the glass bottle, forcing her to drink a few drops before he would touch her again. When she complied he wrapped her in his arms again, closing his eyes, peaceful for the first time in days.

"Oh, Enrin," he said, "what will I do with you? I won't try to leave you behind again."

She couldn't help but smile, kissing his throat.

"I wish it hadn't taken all of this to get you to learn that lesson."

He pulled his cloak closer around her, kissing her once more.

"Sleep, wife, we have a long journey soon ahead of us."

She closed her eyes, a distant memory tugging at her heart.

"I'm afraid I love you too," she murmured, sleep claiming her once more.


	9. Chapter 9

**It's not a good chapter without some excitement ;) enjoy!**

* * *

"Jon, please."

Enrin threw her hands in the air, her exasperation palpable. A fortnight had passed since her fall, and since then, Jon had treated her like a porcelain doll, afraid she would break.

Today he asked if he could lace her boots.

He stood in the corner of the room, at least having the grace to look sheepish. She sat at the edge of the bed, glaring at him.

"I can very well lace my own boots for myself, thank you," she said, almost spitting. She leaned down again, tying the straps all the way up to her knee. When she stood, she swayed.

Jon leaped forward to catch her, his hands steadying her elbows.

"You're not ready to go yet," he said, sitting and pulling her into his lap, "I'll send a raven to this dragon queen and I will tell her to wait a while longer."

Enrin couldn't help but roll her eyes skyward, pushing away from him so that she could stand.

"You said so yourself, we need her armies to help us defeat the Night King. I have agreed with you. Now please, we must go."

Jon squinted at her, eyes wary. "And you're sure you feel well enough for a week on a boat, perhaps longer if the winds do not favor us?" She had been so weak when she fell, Jon feared for her safety each time he turned. His hand was always on her, poised, ready to catch her if she weakened. Of course, she hadn't, and he knew if she did, he would never hear of it if he was not around to witness it himself.

She rounded on him, throwing her thick hair behind her back. "Get up," was all she said, before he turned and walked from the room, her red dress flowing behind her.

Jon pulled on his cloak, squaring his shoulders, before he echoed her steps down the hall.

The throne room was alive with chatter, but as she entered it fell to a low buzz. Some of the lords bowed to her, others ignored her. Some even had the audacity to look on her with distaste. She strode past them all, crossing the table and taking her seat next to Jon's. As he entered, each head bowed, some lower than other's, looking for a favor. Enrin couldn't help but roll her eyes at these southern lords kissing the ground for a man they thought better than them. Although, Enrin was sure Jon was a thousand times better than all of these men combined.

He came around to be seated next to her at the high table, his hand finding hers immediately, out of instinct. They laced their fingers together, looking out over the crowed of people before them. Sansa took her seat next to Jon, smiling encouragingly to them both. When the room quieted, Jon rose to speak.

"I know that most of you had heard of the summons from Daenerys Targaryen."

The room buzzed again, and Jon raised his hand for silence.

"Today," he said, his eyes taking stock of the room, "I ride for wintertown, and sail for Dragonstone."

Yohn Royce all but leapt from his seat, his face incredulous.

"Your Grace," he sputtered, his cheeks purple, "you are the King in the North. The King in the North cannot...leave the North."

Jon watched him idly, his face a calm mask.

"And what sort of king would I be if I did not make alliances with other strong leaders to better the lives of my own people?" The room quieted again, and Enrin's eyes caught Sansa's. They watched each other for a moment, their silence the only communication they needed. If Jon did not play this very carefully, he faced the risk of losing the support of the Northern lords. Enrin chewed the inside of her cheek. Today was the day of her first official council as Jon's wife, and already it was proving to be a tense one.

Robett Glover stood next, uninvited, and Enrin liked him the least of all of the lords before her. Her distrust for him radiated from her in waves.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but how can you be King in the North if you are not IN the North?"

It was all Enrin could do not to roll her eyes. She stood then, folding her hands neatly in front of her, playing ever the lady these people expected.

"Forgive me, Lord Glover," she said, her voice dripping with poison honey, "but how can you be Lord of Deepwood Motte if you are not IN Deepwood Motte?"

Whispers spread about the room, a chuckle being heard from somewhere near the back. Lord Glover rounded on her, his face full of reproach.

"I will not be spoken to like this from a wildling, not in my own homeland," he growled, spitting as he talked.

Jon moved to step forward, perhaps to leap over the table at this man, but Enrin put a hand on his chest to stop him. If she was going to prove herself, now was her chance.

"If _I_ am remembering the timeline correctly, my lord, _my_ people were here first. I am descended of the First Men, like all of the free folk born beyond the wall since the day they stepped foot here in our lands. I have seen things you have never dreamed.

I am not what you expected in a queen, I know that. I am not what I expected in a queen, either. I will respect you, my lord, I will respect your words and your entitlement to feel your feelings but I will not be disrespected in my home, in front of my own people, and my husband."

Jon stared at her, his eyes full of wonder, and fear. Lord Glover sputtered, opening his mouth to speak again.

"Sit down, Lord Glover," Enrin spoke, the sweetness gone from her voice, "your time for speaking has passed."

The throne room was silent, poised, as Enrin and Lord Robett Glover stared each other down.

And then he laughed.

The rest of the lords followed in his suit, little Lady Mormon the most of all. She rocked back and forth, slapping her knees, nudging her knights beside her. Lord Glover doubled over, wiping a tear from his eye. Yohn Royce looked on, joining in the mirth, his laughter nervous.

"You make a valid point, my lady," he said; but then he looked at the men gathered behind him, who all stood, "or shall I say, my Queen."

He raised his sword and pointed it downward, falling to one knee, his men following his lead. Yohn Royce and the Knights of the Vale followed suit, not to be outdone. Lady Lyanna Mormont knelt next, her little face staring up at Enrin in admiration.

"I'll name you, Your Grace," she said, her small eyes alight, "The Queen in the North!"

"Aye," Lord Glover agreed, "The Queen in the North!"

Each knight took up the chant, the words echoing through the halls of Winterfell.

 _"The Queen in the North!"_

* * *

The council passed smoothly, each lord expressing their discontent, even at the thought of her going with him.

"My Queen," the little Lady of Bear Island questioned, "you truly think you should not remain here to rule while His Grace travels to Dragonstone?"

Enrin could not help but smile gently at this tiny creature, who looked even smaller wrapped in a fur cloak two sizes too big. Lyanna Mormont reminded her of herself when she was younger; full of purpose with nowhere to put it.

"His Grace and I have decided to leave the North in Lady Sansa's hands in our stead," Enrin spoke, as Jon looked down at Sansa with pride in his eyes. Sansa only nodded, her face serene, fear boiling behind her eyes. The lords each pledged their swords to her as well, and Enrin watched them warily. She felt eyes on her, searching the back of the crowd. A small man with a pointed chin, streaks of gray at his temples, watched her as well, their eyes meeting briefly. Apprehension sliced through her chest, and she narrowed her eyes. He bowed his head and slipped from the room, a shadow, disappearing into the hall.

The lords bowed as the council broke, each coming to them to wish them well on their journey. They begged for a hasty return, their discomfort palpable. Sansa milled among them, and Enrin reached out to catch her arm. She took it in hers, saying, "Sister, will you see me off?" Giving a gracious smile to the ladies milling about, fussing over her dress, Enrin purposefully pulled Sansa away.

Sansa followed her into the courtyard, her face troubled.

"What is it?" She asked as they neared the doors to the castle, the cold air whipping over the threshold. The wind hid their voices as Enrin whispered to her.

"Keep your wolf with you at all times," she said, nodding down at the slate gray pup at Sansa's heels. They had grown so much, her ears brushing Sansa's thigh.

"She may not be able to fight a war, but she can protect you. I'll leave four of my men here with you as well, my own guard," Enrin spoke in a rushed voice, her eyes scanning the faces around her. Sansa looked on, shaking her head. "Enrin, what is it? Tell me," her tone was colored with anxiety, and Enrin placed her hands on the girls arms, holding her steady.

"That pointy man," she said, "the one who brought the Knights of the Vale. I do not trust him." Enrin looked around once more as the people began to file into the heart of the courtyard, waiting to see them off. "Be careful, Sansa," she said, pulling the red haired girl to her in a hard hug, "never let yourself be alone with him. Until I return, my men are yours. Let them protect you."

They broke apart then, Sansa only nodding. Enrin turned quickly as Jon appeared behind them, reaching to place a kiss on Sansa's hair.

"Be safe, sister, I will see you upon my return."

Four hard men surrounded Sansa then, their faces stern. Ten men of the free folk had pledged themselves to Enrin upon her marriage to Jon, and she had taken them on as her personal guard. She had known these men since they were babes at their mother's breasts, and she trusted their loyalty almost more than anything. She looked at them each in turn, needing no words. They only nodded, hands on their weapons, eyes scanning the crowd.

Jon and Enrin made their way through the throng, their horses awaiting them. Jon helped her into her mare, a thick gray charger with hooves the size of dinner plates. He mounted his own black stallion, and Enrin could not help but think how kingly he looked then, wrapped in furs atop his great warhorse, looking out over his people. He raised a hand in one final farewell, before spurring his horse into a trot, Enrin and Davos at his side.

They rode in silence for a few miles, the smoke rising from Winterfell growing smaller in the distance. The horses were sure footed in the snow, their men riding behind them in single file. Enrin watched as Jon slowed his horse to a walk, letting the soldiers pass him, gazing into the distance toward the north. The caravan veered east at the crossroads, wintertown a speck in view in the distance.

She reigned up next to him, pulling her wolf's head cloak around her tighter. Night stalked past her, Ghost at her heels, the pups gamboling after them.

"You did me proud today," Jon said suddenly, reaching for her hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles. She smiled at him softly.

"You and your pompous lords," she teased, "if we had been in the true north, I would have put an arrow between his ribs for the affront."

Jon laughed once, a strange sound, shaking his head. They stood together in silence for a few moments, watching as the guards strayed farther from them.

"This crossroads is where I last saw my father," Jon said, his voice a whisper on the wind, "I was just past my seventeenth name day. Heading for the Night's Watch." He shook his head, eyes gazing out before him. "'Next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother,' he said. The last thing he ever said to me."

Enrin reached for his hand, unsure of what to say. She took a breath.

"I'm sure she would be proud to see you today," she said, gently, "her son is a King. You are her pride and her joy." Jon turned his gaze to her, eyes shining.

"You didn't know her, but she knows you, that I am sure of."

Jon heaved a sigh, shaking his head. A sad smile played on his lips when he looked at her.

"I think they would have liked you," he said, "my...my parents."

Enrin squeezed his hand. "I hope I am worthy of that honor."

Jon leaned over to kiss her, something chaste, but desire bloomed in her belly as his lips touched hers. She moved to deepen the kiss, but he pulled away, spurring his horse.

It was all she could do not to huff, before she nudged her mare after him, overtaking him as they followed the caravan into wintertown.

* * *

The ship pitched beneath her as they pushed away from the sleepy town, dusk falling across the sky. She watched Jon beside Davos, pulling sails and tying ropes that she had no idea where they went. The sailors watched him appreciatively. How many kings would dirty their hands behind their soldiers?

She leaned over the bow of the ship, watching the waves crash against the hull. The wind whipped her hair this way and that, the frigid air freezing her skin. She reached down to stroke Night, who lay at her feet. She felt her wolf's uneasiness at being on the open water. The pups raced about, ripping apart old discarded nets, leaping on the sailors that passed them. Night growled quietly, resting her head against Enrin's calf for a moment before stalking off to discipline her children.

She felt a hand grasp her hip as Jon appeared beside her, sweat dripping from his brow even in the cold air. He pulled her close to him, pressing his lips to her ear.

"How about supper?" He asked, taking her hand and leading her below the deck. They strode past hammock after hammock, some men already bedded down for the night. Jon held the door of the cabin open for her and as she stepped inside, he closed the door softly behind them.

It was small, with the featherbed taking up most of the space. A small table sat in the corner, each available surface littered with candles. Two plates of salted pork awaited them on rough wooden plates, cups of ale sat beside them.

"Salted pork," Enrin commented as she sat, Jon pushing her chair in for her, "I assume this is all we've brought with us."

Jon smiled a gentle smirk, sitting across from her.

"I'd bet you wish you stayed in Winterfell now."

She picked up her fork to eat, the taste assaulting her tongue. Jon finished his in record time, as Enrin pushed the other half of hers away, downing her cup of ale. He watched her, sternness in his eyes. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, her face impassive.

"Are you not going to finish that?" He asked, fiddling with a loose bolt in the wood.

"It seems that I am not."

"You've got to eat."

"I have eaten."

"Enrin."

"Jon."

They glared at each other, each waiting for the other to rise to the challenge. Jon broke the contest first, pinching the bridge of his nose. She drummed her fingers on her elbow, stubborn as a mule, one eyebrow arched.

"I'm not going to fall apart if you touch me, you know," she said, and Jon met her eyes over his fingers. He said nothing.

Enrin sighed. "Well, I would like a bath, if possible. Or do you think the water will boil my insides and turn me into a ham?"

Jon glared for a moment before he stood and strode from the room, his chair scraping loudly against the wood.

Enrin wandered to the window of the cabin, suddenly feeling ashamed. She was being petulant, she knew. In the fortnight that had passed since her injury, she had slept for four of them. The remaining ten, Jon would hardly kiss her without breaking away before they took it too far. His hands were feathers on her skin, afraid that if he squeezed too hard, she would break. Enrin rested her chin on her hand, allowing herself the moment alone to wallow in her pity.

The door opened as Jon returned, two of his men pushing a large basin of water through the doors. Steam rose from the top, curling into the air.

Enrin and Jon's eyes met for a moment, before he turned to leave again, and as his hand touched the latch she whispered, "Wait."

She strode the room in two bounds, gripping the front of his leathers roughly. She yanked his mouth down to hers and kissed him, hard. Jon was half hearted for a moment, her lips traveling to his ear lobe, nibbling down his neck.

"I don't want to hurt you," Jon said, his voice filled with longing. His breath hitched as Enrin's teeth hit a particularly sensitive spot in the hollow of his throat. She undid the straps on his jerkin, sliding it off his back. She pulled on his shirt next, forcing him to raise his arms.

"You won't," she said, stepping away to undo the bodice of her dress. Jon watched her unlace, his eyes following each movement of her finger. He reached forward to pull away the last strap, her dress falling open. Jon gazed at her for a moment, eyes raking over her body, before his mouth was on hers again, more insistent than before. Her hands fumbled with the ties on his pants as she slid them down his legs. Jon pressed himself against her, his mouth finding her breast. He teased her, her breath coming in short gasps. "I said I wanted a bath," she whispered, pulling his face to hers once more. He turned to step into the bath, pulling her behind him, liquid sloshing over the sides like a waterfall. She sat astride him, their tongues fighting for dominance. His fingers found her _there_ , spreading her open, moving inside her with agonizing slowness. She moaned into his mouth, breaking away to look at him. His eyes were fire, his hair slick with wetness, pushed away from his face. She knotted her fingers in it, pulling his head back to reach his throat.

Jon lifted her easily, his hands on her hips, and slowly slid into her, the hot water tingling on their skin. Gently, they began to move.

"I've missed this," he whispered, his voice almost a growl, his lips finding her jaw. Enrin was all sensation, her skin flushed. She felt herself building, already, as she kissed him again and again, her lips everywhere on his face.

"I love you," she whispered as she tightened around him, wrapping her arms around his neck to succumb to what she had needed so badly.

"I love you," he replied, his lips at her ear, as he moved once more in her and stilled, releasing himself deep inside, the steam curling around their bodies inside their own little piece of the world.

* * *

Jon pulled the furs around them, pressing a kiss to Enrin's forehead. He pushed her hair away from her face, the scar from her stitches visible just by her hairline.

"See?" She said, her voice languid and sleepy, "not so bad. I'm just trying to match you."

Her fingers brushed across a paper thin scar over his eye. Jon smiled down at her, indulgent, nestling closer to her in the bed. She turned onto her side as he pressed himself to her back, spreading his warmth across her.

They slept for what felt like moments, before a violent toss of the ship nearly flung them from the bed. Jon caught Enrin before she tumbled off, steadying her before he leaped up. The ship pitched again, sending Jon into the wall with his shoulder. He swore, yanking his pants up his legs and throwing his jerkin across his back, tying them hastily. "Stay here!" He shouted as he threw the door open, racing into the hull of he ship, yelling for Davos as he went.

"Like hell," Enrin spat, already dressed in her leggings and Jon's shirt, pulling her boots onto her feet. Steel crashed above her as the boat rocked again, sending her sidelong into the edge of the trunk full of their belongings. She cursed, but threw the trunk open regardless, sliding her quiver of arrows across her back. She hung her bow in the crook of her arm as Longclaw stared at her from the corner, forgotten. This time she cursed Jon, snatching the sword and running from the cabin.

The deck was a flurry of motion; some shouted orders, others cried out in pain. Men she did not recognize stormed over the sides of the ship, waving stunted blades and daggers. She grasped the arm of the person nearest to her, a cabin boy no older than fifteen. "What is this?" She shouted over the clamor, the boy's wide eyes rounding on her. "Pirates, m'lady," was all he said, before his gripped a sword in his shaking fingers and rushed out to join the fray.

"Fucking pirates?" Enrin mumbled to herself, slipping out of the doors and weaving her way to the upper deck, her eyes scanning for Jon.

She saw him, wielding an oar like a spear, his foe a man twice his size and mean as a bear. Enrin knocked an arrow and loosed it immediately, firing it in one ear and out the other. Jon paused, mid strike, his panicked eyes finding her. "Enrin, no!" He shouted, and she turned almost too late. A wiry boy raced at her with a dagger raised above his head, ready to strike a killing blow. Instantly she ducked, sliding under his legs and bringing her shoulder into his groin. She tore the scabbard from Longclaw and in one swift motion, skewered him all the way to his chest from between his legs. His blood splattered her face as he died, collapsing to the deck, his eyes unseeing. She wiped her eyes and straightened, knocking another arrow and taking out the eye of a man behind Jon, who tumbled overboard. Enrin took a running leap from the top of the deck, landing below on the balls of her feet like a cat. She thrust Longclaw at Jon hilt first, her eyes menacing.

"Don't leave your fucking sword next time," she growled, ripping her lost arrow from the dead man's skull and wiping it on her shirt. She knocked it immediately, standing with her back to him, spinning in a slow circle. Jon mimicked her, wielding his bloody sword, their eyes taking in the scene.

Davos faced this way and that, pulling sails and dislodging grappling hooks from the side of the ship. She put an arrow in the throat of a man who meant to attack him from behind, his scream gurgling as blood surged from his mouth. Davos turned, his face stunned. "Davos, the sails!" She screamed, Jon hacking away at an opponent with his sword. She reached forward, a moment, to grasp the hilt of a discarded long sword. Something hit her from the side and bowled her over; a crooked toothed smile loomed above her, a dagger between the teeth. She gasped and struggled for purchase, her hands finding his throat as she squeezed, hard. Suddenly he was lifted away from her.

Night had seized the pirate in her jaws, her teeth crushing the back of his neck. Ghost stood beside her, his mouth wet with blood, and they snarled. "Go!" She and Jon shouted in unison, and the wolves sprung forward, leaving a spray of blood in their wake. Enrin elbowed him in the ribs. "And you wanted to leave them behind," she said, and he dutifully ignored her. He whirled, taking two men out with one great sweep of his sword. Enrin's eyes found the cabin boy, his thin arms weighed down by a sword three times too big for his size. She leaped forward, gripping his elbow and pulling him to her. She shoved him in the cabin doors and shut them. "Stay there, little one," she shouted, raising the hilt of the sword she pulled from his hands. Jon was lost in the smoke and noise, her eyes scanning for him.

She was hit again from the side, her head slapping against the deck with a loud crack. Her vision swam, stars shining above her eyes. Blood filled her mouth as her teeth but into her cheek. The man that hit her lay on top of her, his leg jutting her knees apart. He laughed as she struggled, and she found enough strength to spit in his face. He growled, and brought his hand across her face, hard. She felt his hands tugging at the ties on her leggings, and panic gripped her as she realized what he intended to do.

She swung her hips, biting the hand that he had pressed over her mouth. She screamed, fear and adrenaline surging through her, again and again. "Jon! _Jon!_ "

And then he was there, cleaving the barbarian nearly in half. He gripped the man by the back of his shirt and threw him, his fist connecting with his face again and again. He pushed the body overboard, cursing after it, as it sank beneath the black water.

He reached for her and she shied away, instinctively. The battle had all but been won, a few stragglers begging mercy or flinging themselves from the rails, swimming after their retreating ship.

"Shh," Jon hushed gently, his hands raised, Longclaw laying at his feet. Blood covered them both; Enrin tasted it in her mouth and didn't know who's it was. She stumbled to him, almost as if she was just realizing who he was. He wrapped her in his arms, saying a silent prayer to the gods. "You saved me," she said into his neck, her arms around his waist.

"Always," Jon replied, pulling away to look at her.

"Are you alright?" They both asked at once, wiping the blood from each other's faces with their fingers. Davos stumbled over to them, a small gash bleeding across his forehead.

"Your Grace," he said, his eyes on Enrin, "I'd like to thank you for saving my life." She managed a small smile, and gripped his forearm.

"Extinguish the torches," Jon said, his voice all business, "and we continue to sail through the night. I won't take another chance like that." He turned and pulled her toward the light of the cabin doors, his arms supporting most of her weight. Her eyes found his and a small laugh bubbled from her lips.

"Fucking pirates."


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi! Here's an update for you guys and another thank you for all your kind words! But also, something else:**

 **I enjoy constructive criticism as much as the next guy, because it helps me better myself and my writing. But in the end, it's still fanfic that is (unfortunately) not real and will never be published other than on this website. So before you comment something mean, try remembering that, and then decide if you still want to pm me your negative comments!**

 **Thanks love you bye!3**

* * *

Jon pressed the warm cloth to her face, the warm water dripping onto her shirt. Enrin winced, but tried her best to be still.

Her head smarted, and her body was already to begin to ache. Enrin had tried to wave Jon away, to see to his wounds first, but he had stood by the door and glowered at her until she relented. It felt like hours that he cleaned every speck of blood from her, inspecting her bruises that were already forming, checking for broken bones. She wanted to tease him, but she did not, because she knew that this is what he needed.

"Your turn," she said, pushing him down where she had sat, pouring fresh water in the basin from the kettle warming over a burning candle. She pulled off his jerkin and discarded it on the floor. His chest and face were marred with blood; she could not tell where his blood ended and someone else's began. They were silent as she cleaned the blood from him, the ship rocking slowly as it sailed through the night.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, as she rung out the cloth in the basin. The water was pink now, but yet there was still so much more blood to go.

"For what?" She asked, running the cloth across his shoulders. He flinched as she touched a sensitive spot, a black and purple bruise forming over his back. His eyes found hers, and he realized how beautiful she looked in the glowing light of the candles, her hair wild around her face.

"You saved me, too," he said, catching her hand and kissing her knuckles softly. She pulled back from him, her brows pulling together.

"Of course I did," she said, laughing in her confusion. "Do you ever think I wouldn't?"

Jon only watched her, a shy smile on his lips.

Enrin leaned forward to kiss him, pouring everything into it.

"I'll always save you, Jon Snow."

* * *

The rest of their journey passed smoothly, but Enrin thought she may be going mad. The cabin boy she had saved had taken to be her personal squire, if Queens even had squires. She had asked Jon one night as they lay together; he had laughed and said if any Queen deserved their own squire, it was her.

The boy's name was Cedrick, and the wolves scared him. Night and Ghost were becoming restless. Enrin could feel the need to run itching beneath her skin, and she had taken Jon every night, roughly, to relieve her tension.

She rolled away from him one such night, the last night on the ship, panting. He lay next to her, gazing at the ceiling, arms beneath his head.

"I don't think I want to leave this ship," he said, rolling over to rest his head on her chest. She grinned, toying with his curls.

"No matter how much I love you, you could not pay me to sleep another night on this canoe."

He laughed, a deep sound. She loved it when he laughed.

"We face this dragon queen on the morrow," he said, "are you ready?"

Enrin scoffed. "I am not afraid of this girl and her winged lizards," she said, although something like apprehension unfolded in her gut.

"They could burn us alive."

Enrin tugged on his hair. "Are you trying to frighten me?" She asked, turning his head to look at her. Jon saw his own eyes reflecting back in the blue of hers.

"I'm trying to prepare you."

Jon had a lump of fear in his belly, growing larger by the day. It was for her, for his wife, whom he had dragged into the war. Even as he thought it, Jon knew she wouldn't have stayed behind, even if she didn't love him. It wasn't in her to pass up an adventure. He envied her that.

"She can try," Enrin said, leaning her head back onto the pillows and closing her eyes, "she can try all she wants to flay me. But if even one of her stupid lizards looks at you like a meal, I'll skin it and make you a new cloak."

Jon laughed, because he actually believed she would try.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Enrin placed a finger on his lips.

"Sleep," she said, "we've both slept so little. Sleep," she kissed his head, "and I'll stay awake to slay the dragons."

* * *

The air was warmer here than in Winterfell, but a chill slowly crept into her bones as the longboat sailed them to the shores of Dragonstone. The castle loomed above them, watching them from the mist. Jon's hand rested on the small of her back, his thumb moving in slow circles. His intent was to be soothing, but his nervousness rolled off of him in waves, crashing against Enrin. The boat skidded across the sand, and Davos was out first, kicking a stake into the sand so the boat would not float away. Jon reached for Enrin as he stood, lifting her from the boat and placing her on the dry part of the sand. She watched only him until he turned to face the man awaiting them, standing shoulder to shoulder with her.

"Ned Stark's bastard," the small man said first, a scar marring from one side of his face to the other. His beard was dark and well trimmed, but his hair shone golden in the sun. The Hand's pin glimmered in the light.

"Imp," Jon replied, raising an eyebrow. They regarded each other for a moment, and then embraced like old friends, each of them laughing.

"I must say, it is good to see you...alive," The man said, before he turned to Enrin and said, "my lady, I don't believe we've met. I am Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen."

"My wife," Jon spoke first, something like pride glowing in his voice. He stepped away, to let her speak, but kept his hand hovering over the small of her back, just to let her know he was still there.

"Enrin," she introduced herself, and Tyrion reached for her hand, kissing her knuckles. Enrin wanted to squirm, not at his touch, but at the formality of it all.

"My lady, have you ever met a dwarf before?" He asked, taking her hand in his and beginning to lead them up the beach toward the stone steps. Enrin looked down at him, a confused smile on her lips.

"Of course I have, we have many of all shapes and sizes north of the wall. But we don't call them dwarves," she said, "we just call them people."

Tyrion looked up at her, a surprised smirk hidden beneath his beard.

"Be careful, Jon Snow," he said, turning back to look at her husband, "I may just steal her away and marry her myself."

A girl stood at the foot of the winding stone stairs. Her hair was beautiful and natural, with more curls than Enrin had ever seen. She stood poised, her back straight, hands folded neatly in front of her. Ten men stood behind her, one for every soldier they had brought with them, their chests bare except for thick leather straps that bound their weapons to them. Enrin released Tyrion's hand, instinctively falling back a step to level herself with Jon. They eyed each other, and suddenly she understood the severity of what they had done.

"Welcome to Dragonstone," the girl said, her voice as pleasant as a summer breeze, "I am Missandei. If you would please relinquish your weapons, our queen awaits."

Davos shifted uncomfortably behind them as Jon unclasped Longclaw from his waist. One of the guards stepped forward, his long braid swinging behind his back. She pulled her bow and quiver from her back, feeling more naked now than she had ever before. Missandei smiled, and turned on her heel, marching up the stone stairs. Two stone dragons met them as they neared the great open doors. Enrin could almost feel their eyes following her as she walked. Apprehension constricted in her gut. She needed her wolves now more than ever.

The mountain stairs wound farther and farther as they ascended, standing two abreast. Tyrion regaled Davos with tales of the time since he had left Dragonstone; Daenerys' conquering of Astapor, Merreen, other cities Enrin had never cared to hear of. Enrin stared at the castle, the stone dragons atop the towers glowering at her menacingly.

Only they were not stone, she realized, as they crowed and took flight, all three whirling above their heads. She gripped Jon's arm, her fingers almost piercing his skin. Tyrion turned to smile at them as he walked.

Jon pulled Enrin down as the great black beast sailed over their heads, almost close enough to touch. Enrin's hair whipped about her as Jon forced her to duck. She pushed up from the ground, craning her neck to get a better look.

"They're beautiful," she said, breathless, and Jon whipped around to stare at her like she had sprouted another head. Enrin saw something fantastic; all Jon saw was death.

They neared the open doors of the castle as the dragons wheeled out over the sea. The braided men ushered them through, darkness swallowing them. Jon fought the urge to turn and run. Enrin felt strangled by the dankness of the castle, instinctually clutching closer to Jon. He looked down at her, her eyes wide as harvest moons, and tried to manage a smile that came off more as a grimace.

Two men in black armor met them at a set of closed doors. Thick helmets covered all but their eyes, and Enrin wondered idly how they breathed. Missandei led the way, watery light spilling from the windows. A black banner hung behind the throne, a red dragon with three heads emblazoned on the cloth. Missandei took her place at the stairs of the great sloping throne, and it was then that they saw her.

She was smaller than Enrin would have thought, her long silver hair braided elaborately behind her head. The rest was swept to the side, curling down her chest. Amethyst eyes met them with a cool, detached curiosity.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, The Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons."

Enrin felt tired even hearing all of this woman's names. She glanced at Jon, a dubious look on both of their faces. Davos cleared his throat.

"A pleasure," he said tartly. He straightened his green robes, standing straighter.

"May I introduce Jon Snow, King in the North, the White Wolf. And his ladywife, Enrin, Queen in the North, the She-Wolf."

Enrin could have rolled her eyes. She glanced around her, waiting for someone, anyone, to speak.

"I thank you for traveling such a long way," Daenerys Targaryen suddenly said, ever the diplomat, "I was sorry to hear of your injury, my lady, have you recovered?"

Enrin narrowed her eyes, noticing that the words 'my lady' seemed like an affront. She straightened her shoulders, releasing Jon's arm.

"I did, thank you, my lady," she said, almost spitting it back in her face. Missandei almost flinched. "Her Grace is a queen," she said, "and should be addressed as such."

Enrin snorted. "I am also a queen, _my lady_ , and have been addressed beneath my station."

She heard Jon's quick intake of breath, but did not turn to look at him. The wolf queen and the dragon queen stared each other down, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity.

"No matter," Daenerys said, a coy smile on her mouth, "for I assume you are here to bend the knee."

Enrin could have laughed at the arrogance. Jon came to stand next to her, his boots echoing loudly across he halls.

"We are not."

Daenerys looked like she could have spit.

"I am the queen of the Seven Kingdoms," she said, slowly rising from her seat, "and the North is one of those Seven Kingdoms. Are you telling me that the North has separated?" Daenerys laughed. "But no, you couldn't be, could you? Because that would mean that you are in open rebellion."

They both watched her, faces impassive. The silver girl was incredulous.

"You do realize, _Lord_ Snow, that your ancestors bent the knee to mine hundreds of years ago, after Aegon's conquest."

"Aye," Jon said, sliding his arm through Enrin's, "but I am not a Stark, and our people do not kneel."

Daenerys' face lit with flames from within, her purple eyes glinting with malice. Jon reached for a sword that was not there.

"Your Grace!"

The voice rang out from the doors of the hall, and a thickset bald man shuffled through, his hands hidden beneath his great sleeves. He made his way to the queen's side, whispering into her ear. Daenerys' face changed, momentarily, before a serene mask slid over her features.

"I'm sure you must be tired from your journey," she said, false sweetness in her tone, "my bloodriders will show you to your chambers. I'll have supper sent for you as well. We shall reconvene this meeting upon the morrow."

She turned swiftly, the bald man and Tyrion falling into step with her as she disappeared behind the sloping throne.

The braided men pushed forward, herding them from the room.

"Missandei," she called as the girl turned to leave, "allow me to send for my squire. There are some things I wish to retrieve from the ship."

Two braided men almost pushed them down the narrow hallways, Davos close behind. One of them suddenly stopped to pull open a door, motioning with his head for them to step inside. The other man disappeared with Davos into the darkness.

Panic gripped Enrin as the door closed behind them. Footsteps retreated down the hall, and she stood watching the door until all was silent.

The room was as dark and damp as the rest of the castle, candles waiting to be lit on the wooden table by the bedside. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, anger making her hot.

"The nerve," she spat, the side of her fist connecting with the heavy wooden door, "the nerve of that woman! Did you see? How arrogant could one be?!"

Jon sank to the bed, his hands shaking as he placed them on his knees.

"You handled it well," he said watching her as she paced. Enrin almost growled.

"Dragon queen," she muttered, her teeth clenched, "she tries to intimidate us with her lizards and her stories from how many years ago? Hundreds? I won't have it."

Jon let her rage, tired eyes following her across the room. His chest was tight with apprehension. A small knock broke her from her rant, and Jon all but leaped from the bed, his hand going for his sword again and cursing when he was met with empty air.

"Your Grace?"

Enrin wrenched open the door, almost plowing into Cedrick in her haste. The boy's ashen blonde hair was windswept, his plain brown eyes afraid. Enrin placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Were you hurt? Were they kind to you?" She asked, searching his face. He only nodded.

"I knew what you wanted me to bring, Your Grace," he said, moving from in front of the door to bow as she burst from it. She didn't wait for Jon to follow, but heard his footsteps echoing behind her, just as she knew they would.

They were met with no resistance when they left the castle, but the guards all dressed in gray watched them like hawks stalking their prey. They wound down the stairs, Enrin taking them two at a time.

The wolves howled as they appeared in view, all seven, adding their music to the waves. Enrin fell to her knees and threw her arms around Night's neck, the pups leaping at them and licking their faces. It had been only hours since she'd seen them, and they already looked to have grown.

Ghost moved slowly to Jon, pressing his muzzle to his outstretched hand. Enrin rose, casting her eyes about the beach. Two armed guards stood at the foot of the stairs. Cedrick climbed back into the longboat, oars in his hands. "Send for me if you have need, Your Graces," he called as he quickly rowed away, faster than Enrin thought possible. This island sat well with no one.

Jon pulled her to him, her back to his front, and they looked out onto the waves as Cedrick disappeared behind the jagged rocky outcropping, where they had docked the ship.

"We need to go," Jon said, pressing his lips to her ear. Anyone who was not within earshot would think it nothing more than a lover's kiss.

"How? Where? We are all but prisoners here," Enrin said, turning to face him so that her lips were pressed to his neck. Jon tightened his grip on her, but had no answer. What chance had they to make it to the ship, unnoticed, with thousands of armed men swarming the castle and the beach at any one time? Jon cursed.

"We never should have come here," he sighed, his eyes back on the waves. Enrin pulled the cold air into her lungs, steadying herself against him, pressing her hands to his chest.

"Our people need us to bring home dragonglass. Our people need us to bring her armies. Our people need us to bring her dragons." She looked up at him, emotions at war inside her. Jon hated to see her like this, trapped against the water. She looked out of place without the dappled sunlight of the forest on her skin. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip, kissing her slowly. When he pulled away he took her hand with him.

"Come," was all he said, and he started to run, because he knew that this was what she needed.


	11. Chapter 11

**HI! I'm back! I think my disclaimer in my last post made everyone want to say even more mean things, but that's okay. I'm going to keep writing for the people who enjoy this story as much as I do! You guys are the best! Enjoy!**

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Enrin's eyes opened at first light, the sun spilling through the small window in their chambers. Jon slept beside her, one arm slung over her chest and the other over his eyes. She sat slowly and gazed at him; he looked more peaceful in sleep, but the worried wrinkle between his brows remained. She had never awoken before him.

She stood silently, padding slowly to the small table, pouring a glass of cool water for herself. The wolves slept in the corner of the room in a great heap. The pups were strewn about, sleeping anywhere their heads could lay. A little female, the smallest, has made a nest against Ghost's stomach. Enrin grinned.

Jon made a fitful noise at that moment, something between a gasp and a sob. Enrin whipped around, almost spilling her cup. His arm had moved from his eyes as they rolled, panicked, behind his eyelids. He gasped again, the sound of a man's breath being forced from his lungs.

"Jon," she said, rushing to him, kneeling on the bed. He thrashed, the furs twisting around his legs. His hands clawed at his chest, his fingers raking over his scars. She took them in hers, pressing them down on the bed, afraid he would hurt himself.

"Jon, enough. Wake up!"

She had shouted at him, lips close to his ear. Jon's eyes flew open, her face a blur above him. He thrashed again, ripping his hands from hers and pushing himself up in the bed, his chest heaving. Swear beaded on his brow.

Enrin didn't touch him. She placed her hands on her knees, leaning away, watching him warily. Her father had always said to never wake a sleeping man, but what Jon had seen behind his eyes had been frightening, and seeing him afraid wasn't something she particularly enjoyed.

Their eyes met and she opened her arms, Jon falling into them, his head against her chest. She stroked his hair as his breathing slowed.

"Just a dream, nothing more. You're still here with me."

Jon looked up at her, kissing her throat as he whispered, "Thank the gods."

They held each other for a moment, before Enrin asked, "Would you like to tell me about it?"

Jon pulled away, elbows on his knees as he rubbed what sleep remained from his eyes. "I often dream of the night I died," he said, "what man wouldn't if they were given a chance to remember it?"

Enrin's throat constricted. She reached out to push a stray lock of hair from in front of his eyes.

"I know," she whispered, "but now you are here with me, and any man that tries to kill you again will have to go through me first."

Jon took her face and kissed her, his hands slipping under his shirt that she had slept in. One hand kneaded her breast as the other gripped her hip to slide her down onto the bed, so she lay beneath him. She let him kiss her for a few moments, his hands and lips roaming her body, before she pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him away.

"If I let you continue, we will never get started."

Jon sat as she slid out from under him, pouting like a small boy, all horror from the morning forgotten.

"And what adventure do we embark on today?" He asked, standing as she slid a pair of thick, fur lined pants up her legs. She tucked Jon's shirt into them hastily, reaching down to toss him his pants.

"I saw three cave entrances when we came here, on the beach alone. If there's any dragonglass to be found on this island, we must start searching now."

* * *

The wind whipped Enrin's hair as she strode across the beach, Night and the pups sticking close to her side. Jon had forgone his heavier chainmail for a plain brown jerkin, the jacket underneath a faded dark blue. Enrin moved freely; she had forgotten what it felt like to be unencumbered with the extra fabric of dresses. They walked shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing with each step. They had decided to start with the cave farthest from the entrance of the castle and work their way back by nightfall.

"Do you think the stories are true?" Enrin asked, shouting over the crashing of the waves. Jon shrugged.

"If they're not, now is a terrible time for us to find out."

Sam had told him once of a mountain of dragonglass beneath the castle at Dragonstone, growing in the rocks of the mountains. The Targaryens had used it to decorate their Valyrian steel with no knowledge of its true purpose. Jon's fear now was that it was lost to the ages, like the steel, and all their hope was lost.

They searched for hours in the cold, damp caves. They found nothing but darkness and stone in the first two; Jon grasped Enrin's hand as they trudged back to the cave closest to the entrance of the castle, defeated.

"Should we even bother?" She asked dejectedly, feeling more forlorn than ever. Jon said nothing, but watched the wolf pups bound through the waves, snapping at the sea foam above their heads. They reminded him of human children, full of wonder and excitement of something new. Jon thought of what would happen to the children of the world if they gave up hope.

"Aye," he said, pulling her against him as they neared the mouth of the cave, "we should."

Jon returned to the cave with a torch, Enrin pacing the mouth impatiently. They entered together, the darkness swallowing them. The shadow of the flames leaped across the stone walls. Enrin saw monsters that she knew were not there, but moved closer to Jon anyway. The path wound down, and then up again, growing more narrow as they ascended. Enrin tried to swallow her fear at the enclosed space, clutching the back of Jon's jerkin to keep herself steady.

The cavern opened above them, the ceiling higher than she'd ever thought it could be. Jon raised the torch, squinting, and suddenly they both gasped.

It was there, all of it, covering the walls of the cave in glittering blackness, like oil. Jon reached out to touch it, his hands shaking in disbelief.

"A mountain of dragonglass," he said, his voice soft with amazement.

"Jon," he heard Enrin call from somewhere behind him, and turned to find her slipping out of the aura of light the fire left them. He quickly strode to meet her, wanting to scold her for walking off into a cave, with an uneven floor, where she could fall and break her neck. When he reached her, though, her eyes were on the stones above her, fingers splayed out over the rock. She pointed.

Crude drawings met him in the light of the torch, circles within circles, swirling lines jutting across the face of the stones like veins. There were pictures of children, almost carved into the rock, and taller men with helmets. They had spears and swords raised high; some had symbols spraying from their hands like sparks. They pointed to something even more sinister; blue shards of sea stone stared at him from the rock, bones with blue eyes.

"The White Walkers," Jon whispered, "these were done by the Children of the Forest...and the First Men."

Enrin glanced at him, brushing her fingers across the carvings.

"We have to show this dragon queen," she murmured, studying them closely. She could feel a power there, an old magic, tickling her fingertips like a shock.

"The torch is going out," Jon commented suddenly, after what felt like hours of them staring at the drawings, watching the flames die in the reflection of the dragonglass.

* * *

Enrin dragged her brush through her hair, wincing as it hit a tangle. The sea breeze was not like the gentle wind of the forest, and her hair had become a matted mane upon her head.

Jon only watched her. They had been silent since they had left the cave, simply needing to be near each other, each trying to comprehend what they saw in their own way. She lay the brush down on the table as a knock on the door jarred them both, Jon leaping up to answer.

Four Dothraki stood beyond, their hands on their weapons. Jon used his body to bar the door, but they did not strike. They only pointed.

Jon's eyes followed their fingers, to Enrin, who stood against the window, her hand still resting on the table. Jon clenched his jaw, turning to face them again, his nostrils flared.

"No."

The first man pushed past him and gripped Enrin's elbow, gently but firmly, as the remaining three pushed Jon back against the wall. They did not harm him, only blocked his way as the largest of the Dothraki men pulled Enrin from the room. They spoke in a guttural language as they barred the door to their chambers, two standing station on either side of the door. She heard the pounding of Jon's body as he flung himself against the door, screaming her name as they retreated down the halls.

Enrin said nothing, only followed the man in front of her as another took up the position at her back. She closed her eyes.

A snarl echoed behind them, full of loathing. Night sprang down the winding hall, her dark fur almost blending in with the blackness behind them. One of the Dothraki raised his curved blade, ready to strike.

"No!" Enrin gasped, gripping his arm with both of her hands and almost being lifted from the ground as he raised it. He stopped, saying something in his language again. She shook her head.

"I don't know what you're saying," she said, releasing his arm and reaching to immerse her fingers in the thick fur at Night's neck. The wolf stilled immediately, sheathing her teeth. The two men squinted at her, but continued on their way down the halls, allowing Night to walk at Enrin's side.

The rounded the corner, two of their brethren standing abreast at two great doors, with handles in the shape of dragon's scales. They opened with an audible creak.

A great table stood before them, carved into a map of Westeros and Essos. Figurines stood placed here and there: dragons, wolves, and lions staring into the distance.

Daenerys awaited them, looking into the mouth of a hearth bigger than even the one in the throne room at Winterfell. She turned as they entered, a silver dragon glinting in the light of the fire.

"I thought we might talk," was all she said, and spoke to the Dothraki in that same biting language that sounded almost sweet on her tongue. The soldiers turned and left, closing the doors behind them.

Night stalked forward and Enrin saw Daenerys' back go rigid. She almost smiled.

"She won't harm you," she said, "not unless I tell her to."

Daenerys' purple eyes met Enrin's blue, a stiff smile on her lips.

"I had best not offend you, then," she said, "may I touch her?"

Enrin nodded once, meeting Night's yellow eyes. Daenerys reached forward, letting Night take a long drag of her scent. She ran her fingertips over the soft fur of Night's head.

"A beautiful creature," she murmured, pulling her hand away, as Night paced back to Enrin's side.

"As are your children," Enrin said, and she meant it. Daenerys smiled again, a true smile.

"I thank you."

She reached for two elaborate goblets, pouring wine into each. She offered one to Enrin first.

She took it, unable to hide the distrust in her eyes.

"You think I mean to poison you?" Daenerys asked, and made a point to drink from her cup.

Enrin lifted hers to her lips, the crisp drink tingling on her tongue. Daenerys motioned to two chairs set up by the fire, sitting. She watched Enrin as she slowly rounded the table, sitting across from the silver lady. Night took her place at Enrin's feet, her cheek resting against her calf.

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Enrin asked, "What is it that you wanted to speak about?"

Daenerys squared her shoulders, sitting stiffly. Enrin realized now that she was mimicking her posture.

"Well, I'd like to talk about you."

Enrin took a deep breath, draining her cup of wine. Daenerys motioned for her to have another.

"And what about me?"

"You're a wildling," Daenerys said, curious rather than accusatory. Enrin nodded. "I am of the free-folk, yes," she said, another sip of wine passing her lips. Daenerys watched her for a beat, brows furrowed in curiosity.

"Forgive me, but, _wildling_ does not seem to be a fitting description for you."

Enrin shrugged. "My mother raised me differently than most," she said, "if I hadn't known better, I would have believed the other children when they teased me that she was born south of the wall." In truth, Enrin remembered very little of her mother. Only that she was good and gentle, and had sang her songs of summer as she went to sleep at night.

"If I may ask," Daenerys said, "what of your mother now?"

Enrin shifted in her seat, turning her cup in both of her hands. "She died in the birthing bed," she said, using all her strength to keep her voice level, "and my brother along with her."

Daenerys met her eyes, and Enrin was surprised to see sincerity there. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said, filling her goblet once more, "my own mother died in the birthing bed as well, but I survived."

"Then it may seem you are luckier than most."

"It would."

They regarded each other again, the dragon and the she-wolf, the crackling of the fire accompanying them. It was Enrin who spoke first, desperate to break the silence.

"You asked me here for a reason," she said, leaning back in her chair. Daenerys mimicked her.

"Well," she said, "if you are not here to bend the knee and swear fealty to me, why have you come?"

Enrin took a deep breath. She had only a short time to talk with this woman, and she knew it would be in their best interest to make it worth while.

"I can tell you what I've seen," she began, "but I cannot force you to help us. I can only hope that you will decide that for yourself."

Daenerys said nothing, only motioned for her to continue.

"You and this Cersei Lannister...you can play your game of war if you would like, but the north want no part in it. You bicker over this throne as if it is the only prize to be won. Forgive me, but you are both wrong. The only prize to fight for is life."

Daenerys opened her mouth to question her, but Enrin steamrolled her.

"I am meaning no offense. I do not begrudge you your birthright. But the birthright of all people is to live, and f you do not listen to me now, you will rule over a graveyard by the time this is all over.

"I have seen the dead. An army of them, bigger than any army you or I have ever known. I fought against the White Walkers at Hardhome. I saw thousands of people die as I sailed away in a ship for Castle Black. I saw those same thousands rise up again to fight with the Night King. I lost most of my people, but thankfully the ones that still live are ready to fight again.

"We have come to ask you to fight with us, with the north, against the one true enemy. In return, we will help you win this Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister and sit you upon it, but the north want no part of the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys regarded her, her head cocked to the side.

"You want me to believe that the dead can rise again? That this...Night King is going to come and kill us all. Forgive me," she said, almost laughing, leaning her chin on her hand. Enrin shrugged, sipping her wine. Daenerys closed her eyes for a moment.

"So," she said after a moment, amethyst eyes meeting ice blue, "who's to say I can't just let you return to the north and take my army and dragons south, to King's Landing? Can these...White Walkers swim across an ocean?"

Enrin cocked an eyebrow. She swallowed the last of her wine.

"You very well could," she said, "but I can promise you this; once they are finished with us, they will come for you. The Night King brings with him the long winter, when the seas will freeze to ice and darkness would descend upon all the realm. You would be safe for a while, Daenerys Targaryen, but not forever. They will come for you, too, as they come for all the living."

Daenerys was smart enough to have fear in her eyes. She swallowed, reaching for the pitcher of wine again and filling both of their glasses.

"Say I believed you," she said, sipping to hide a tremor in her hands, "how do we kill these White Walkers?"

They both drank in silence for a moment, and Daenerys shivered. She threw another piece of wood onto the fire, not shrinking away as the embers touched her hands.

"There is a mountain of dragonglass beneath your castle," Enrin said simply, wiping the corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt, "dragonglass and Valyrian steel can reduce a White Walker to dust. But fire is the true way to kill the wights, the bodies that follow them."

Enrin leaned forward, closer to Daenerys than ever before. She could truly see how young this dragon queen was. A young, frightened girl being told ghost stories by a roaring fire. Except this time, the ghosts were real.

"Your dragons breathe fire," Enrin said, her voice almost pleading, "help us. Help us defeat the Night King. After, the north will assist you in sitting on whatever throne you want, as long as we're left living to do so."

Daenerys sat back, her eyes cold and calculating.

"Does your husband know that you are asking for the assistance of my army and my dragons?" She asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity. Enrin shrugged.

"He knows the severity of this situation. He knows better than all of us what we are up against here. I don't need my husband's permission to ask for the assistance of another powerful ally."

Daenerys smirked, one eyebrow raised. "You love each other very much," she commented, idly, pretending badly that she wasn't fishing for information. Enrin's eyes met hers, slightly misty from the wine.

"We do," she agreed, simply, because that was all she knew.

"Do you love him enough to bend the knee to save his life?"

Enrin bristled, her eyes like ice. Night raised her head and snarled.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that was a threat," she growled through gritted teeth, her jaw set in a line.

Daenerys raised her hands in a gesture of peace. "A question, and nothing more."

They stared each other down for a moment, both faces impassive. The fire gave light to Daenerys' eyes that made them look as silver as her hair.

"I love Jon," Enrin said finally, almost resigned, "I love him enough to follow him here and anywhere to make sure he is safe. But I love him too much to give the North to you. For that, he would never forgive me."

Daenerys inclined her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder and down her back. The dragon on her pin glared at Enrin, teeth casting shadows on the wall.

"A tenuous agreement, then," she said, pouring the last of the wine into her glass. "I will help you defeat this Night King, and in return you will lend the armies of the North to my cause against Cersei Lannister; whichever comes first.

"For now, you and your husband can remain King and Queen in the North, until all of our enemies are defeated. Then, we can discuss whether you would rather fight another war or bend the knee."

Enrin raised an eyebrow. "Are these your terms?"

Daenerys nodded once.

"They are. You have my word...Your Grace."

Enrin stood, with Night at her side. They grasped each other's forearms, standing eye to eye.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Enrin said, before turning and walking from the room, leaving Daenerys to stand by the fire and watch her go.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi guys! Sorry, been off for a couple days, but here I am! I know this chapter might seem a little filler-like, but don't worry. Big things are coming that I may or may not already have written ;) Enjoy!**

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Enrin wove down the halls, almost at a run, Night trotting along at her side. The Dothraki guards followed, lazily, a few steps behind her. She no longer thought they were for her protection; at this point, they almost seemed like they just didn't want her to get lost.

Davos stood at the door of their chambers, rocking back and forth on his heels. He eyed the two men at their door warily, but turned as he saw Enrin hustling toward them.

"Your Grace," he said as she breezed past them, relief in his voice. She threw open the door to their chambers, Davos following her over the threshold.

Jon looked as if he had been pacing. The bedside table now lay, broken, the candles strewn about the room, like he had thrown it at the door in his frustration. His knuckles were wet where he had bloodied them on the wood.

He looked older then, in his fear, and as she entered the room he stared at her for a moment as if he didn't believe she was there.

They rushed to each other at the same time, and Jon took her face in his hands. He searched her, wanting to inspect every hair on her head.

"Have they hurt you?" Was all he asked, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. Enrin searched his eyes, full of anxiety, and quickly shook her head. Jon gulped in a deep breath of air, embracing her once more. He had died a thousand deaths in the short time she had been gone, raging like a madman, hurling threats at the Dothraki who heard him but stayed silent.

Enrin made to step away, suddenly aware of Davos hovering by the door, but Jon kept a hand on her waist, keeping her against him. Davos dutifully ignored their closeness. "What exactly was it that the dragon queen wanted, Your Grace?"

Enrin swallowed, and regaled them with the events of her meeting with Daenerys. They were both quiet for a long moment when she had finished, so long that she poured a cup of water for herself and almost finished it before they spoke again.

"You...you managed that in one meeting? By yourself?" Davos asked, an edge of disbelief in his voice. Enrin's eyes flashed back and forth between the both of them.

"Do...negotiations usually take longer than that?"

Jon watched her for a moment, his lip quivering, and Enrin thought he might cry...until he laughed.

"What are you, honestly," he said, kissing her temple, "that would have taken me weeks to hash out. And there you go, waltzing in and arranging an entire alliance in two days." Enrin shrugged. "I just told her the truth, and she believed it, or at least humored me enough to try. Either way, we need to mine the dragonglass. We can't begin to think about fighting the Others until we can forge weapons to kill them with." Her eyes flashed from Davos to Jon again as they both sat in silence, staring at her. Enrin threw her hands in the air, huffing. "Well? Is that a yes or a no?"

"Yes, Your Grace," they both agreed in unison, and Jon stood, eyes only on her. "I'd like a moment with my wife, please, Ser Davos. We'll talk again tomorrow." Davos gave them both a tight lipped smile before slipping from the room, the door closing behind him.

Enrin opened her mouth to question Jon, but he was on her in a moment, his mouth covering hers. She gasped, but returned his kiss. He was all fire and fear, his hands roaming her body roughly. His lips found her neck as he pulled her shirt up, forcing her to lift her arms.

"Jon, what-"

He found her lips again, silencing her. His hands found her pants as he undid the straps, pulling away. His eyes were shining.

"I need you," he said, gazing at her, waiting for acceptance.

"Yes," she said, bringing her mouth to his again, relishing in the feel of his hands on her body.

* * *

Jon ran his fingertips over the curve of her hip as she squirmed. The room was lit by a single candle, the only one Jon hadn't broken. The shadows danced across them, and Enrin watched it flicker, catching Jon's hand as he meant to tickle her again.

"You were very angry," she said, rolling over to face him, one arm under her head. His face was half a shadow, only one eye visible.

"Aye," he whispered, "I was."

He pushed her hair away from her face. He watched her for a moment, trying to pull words from his brain into his mouth so that she could comprehend what roiled beneath the surface.

"I thought she was whisking you away to behead you for affronting her," he said, his voice choked, "I thought...I thought I wasn't going to see you again. I almost went through the door twice." He winced as he flexed his hand, his knuckles protesting. Enrin caught it in her fingers and inspected it in the dim light. "How do you expect to mine dragonglass with injured hands? Honestly, Jon," Enrin sighed, "you know how executions work. If she had wanted to behead me, she would have had you watch."

Jon went white at the thought, the blood freezing in his veins. "Don't talk like that," he said, pulling her closer to him. "I can't promise that someone won't want to lob off my head at some point," she said, shrugging, "but you can't live your life in fear of it. What are we fighting for, if not to live and enjoy living?" She kissed him slowly, her hands tracing the planes of his chest. They lay together for a few moments, before Jon asked, "What do you think of this Daenerys Targaryen?"

Enrin shrugged again, resting her cheek on his chest. "I think she is good," she said, "I think she has a good heart, but she is afraid. I can only hope that she will be humbled and stripped of some of that arrogance she carries before she sits on the stupid chair made of swords."

She felt his chuckle in her ear, and she held him tighter, trying to hold on to the sound. She wanted to tell him that she was afraid, that she wanted him to take her home, but she knew that he was afraid, too. The sound of the sea made her restless and she longed for the rustling of the leaves in the winter winds, the sound of pine needles and snow crunching under her feet. She looked up to see Jon watching her, his eyes steady. She opened her mouth to speak but he brushed his thumb over her lips, whispering, "I know."

She felt overwhelmed by her feeling for him, for how much she had grown to love this man in such a short time. A painful lump formed in her throat as she tried to swallow it down. Jon saw the war behind her eyes, helplessness coloring his thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to put her back on the ship and send her sailing for Winterfell, or as far south as the sea could go. He wanted to send her east, west, anywhere that she could be safe from the war he had brought her into. "I want to send you home," he said finally, knowing her answer before she even said it.

"I won't go without you," she said, and he only nodded. They lapsed into silence again, her head on his chest and his fingers gently toying with the ends of her hair. "I love you," he said after a long while, his fingers forming slow circles on her back, "do you know that?"

She did not look at him, only tightened her arm across his stomach.

"Yes," she said, "I know that."

* * *

Jon opened his eyes as light spilled into the room. His hands ached with bruises as he flexed them. Enrin lay awake next to him, her light eyes watching the ceiling. "Did you sleep?" He asked, sitting up to face her in the bed. She shook her head. He sighed, leaning down to kiss her shoulder. They rose at the same time, dressing in silence. Enrin pulled another of his gray shirts over her head, and he wondered if he should have brought more with him.

He watched her lacing her boots, standing near the door. She had not said a word through the entire morning. They had dressed and broke their fast in silence, and Jon's frustration was mounting. He opened the door as she finished, so that they may leave but his hand tightened on the handle and he slammed it shut again. Enrin jumped, her eyes wide with alarm. He rounded on her, his nostrils flared.

"I'll bite," he said, barring the door with his hands folded in front of him, "you're quieter than the dead. What is it?"

She cocked her head at him. "Is that a joke?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh so big that his shoulders sagged. "Tell me."

She shook her head. "Nothing at all," Enrin said, her voice feigning lightness. She reached around him to open the door but he stepped in front of her, catching her wrist. He gazed at her pointedly, his eyes probing.

She stepped back, breathing deeply. She had lay awake to watch him all night, afraid he may dream again. Her eyes felt heavy and her soul was tired, but she stood there in front of him, for once in her life unable to find her words. She didn't know what she saw in his eyes in that moment, but his worry rolled from him in waves. Her urge to run from him, from what she felt, had never been greater. For one honest moment she thought of climbing from the window.

Then he said her name, just her name, and his voice was so forlorn that she thought it might break her heart.

Every emotion that she had felt in the last several weeks crashed over her and she sagged, and he caught her as she fell. He pulled her into his lap as she tried to shove him away. His hands were steady on her wrists as tears sprang unbidden from her eyes. Enrin ducked her head, her hair covering her face like a veil. He didn't question her, only let her weep.

"I love you," she said, her voice thick, "and it frightens me." She looked at him then, her tears hot on her face. "I had come to terms with death long ago, but now...I love you, and I'm afraid."

Jon crushed her to him, drying her tears with the edge of his hand.

"I'm not used to you crying," he said, "not long ago you told me you weren't some weeping southern lady."

That made her laugh, and she shoved him, gently. Jon took her face in his hands, pushing the hair from her eyes.

"You and I," he said, "are going to make it through this, together. I promise."

She placed her hand over his, leaning forward so that their foreheads touched.

"Aye," she replied, "together."

* * *

Daenerys stood waiting for them on the beach, twenty Dothraki standing lazily behind her. She smiled wryly at their appearance.

"Good morning," she called over the wind, "we thought you weren't going to make it. I've spared twenty men to assist with your mining endeavors in the cave today."

Jon came to a stop in front of her, Enrin at his side. He cast his eyes dubiously over the men behind her, who looked like they would rather be anywhere than where they stood.

"Thank you," he replied, pulling his gloves over fingers. Unknowingly, Enrin mimicked his moves, and they let their hands fall to their sides in synchronization with each other, something that came naturally to them now. The sea was angry, a twisting nether, pulling at the sand. Enrin shuddered.

"There is something we'd like to show you, if you have the time," Jon said to the dragon queen, who only nodded and motioned for them to lead the way. Enrin fell into step with Daenerys, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. She looked nervous as they entered the mouth of the cave.

"Stay with me," Enrin said, as the Dothraki muttered with unease around her. Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of their words.

"They say that they don't like to be underground," Daenerys said, reading her face. "They didn't like the great salt sea, either, but they crossed it for me."

Enrin steadied herself on the wall of the cave as the path wound down around them, immediately striking back up again. Daenerys' boot caught a stray stone and she stumbled, but Enrin caught her elbow and pulled her upright. "They must trust you, then," she said as Daenerys brushed dust from her dress.

Braziers had been lit to alleviate the darkness, and the dragonglass glittered like a thousand black diamonds. Daenerys had the grace to look on in awe, but Jon led them straight to the far side of the cavern, where fire burned under the cave drawings. Daenerys followed them slowly, her eyes wide, taking in the images like she barely believed them real. "Who made these?"

"The Children of the Forest," Jon answered steadily, his finger trailing across to where the blue stone glittered at him again, watching his every move. "And the First Men. They were here, together, fighting the true enemy."

Daenerys' eyes were wide, the red of the fire flickering across the purple of her iris. She slowly reached out to touch the carvings.

"Do you believe us now?" Enrin asked, standing at her shoulder, watching her face expectantly.

"I never said I didn't believe you."

"But you'd never said you did."

A voice called her name from the entrance of the cave, and Daenerys bid them farewell, one of the Dothraki lighting her way through the cavern. Her steps were quick, almost frightened, and Enrin listened as they disappeared.

The pickaxes made music against the stone, prying loose the shards of obsidian in record time. She did not understand the Dothraki when they spoke, but she would give them that they were strong. They toiled well into the night, the black mounds growing at every turn. The braziers they had lit to see had succeeded in lending them light, but also in making the cave hot. Sweat poured down her brow as she hacked away at the stone, Jon by her side; as they worked, he talked.

He spoke of Winterfell with the reverence that one would use to speak of their gods. He told tales of people long dead; of Old Nan and the pies she would make, and how she would slip Jon an extra rasher of bacon when they broke their fast, after telling his brother Robb that it was long eaten. He spoke of Mikken and how he had forged their steel, always making certain that Jon's swords were lighter and sharper, to benefit his lighter frame. When he spoke of Catelyn Stark his eyes softened; she had never loved him, let alone even liked him. He remarked that Sansa looked so much like her that fear struck him oftentimes when she entered a room, and he waited to be greeted with a cold stare and a biting reprimand. He could not blame her, no, for how could he? She had no choice in his birth, either. What could it have felt like to stare into the eyes of her husband's infidelity each day for seventeen years before they had gone their separate ways? Enrin wanted to tell him that she was glad his father tarnished his honor, because that meant that he was here with her, but she did not. She let him talk, taking joy in the sound of his voice as he painted images in her head. He spoke of Robb, his brother, who was his age. As children they had been inseparable, until Robb had taken on learning the lord duties from his father. Sansa had hardly spoken to him in her teenage years; she went by her lady mother, who's distaste for Jon rolled off her in waves. But Arya, sweet Arya he said, she was his best friend. A tiny girl, she weighed no more than a mouse, but she was fiercer than all of them combined. He had given her a sword that she had named Needle before he had departed for the Wall, and he wondered aloud if it ever kept her safe. Enrin could feel his heart breaking at his words, but said nothing, allowing him to have his moment. She wanted to comfort him, to say that if Arya was so fierce the she knew she was alive out there somewhere in the world, but she could not. What if it was a lie?

Bran was dead, for all he knew, a cripple boy in the company of a halfwit and two children Jon had never known. Jon hoped his wolf was with him, wherever he was.

His axe rained down again and again, sparks flying as it connected with the rock. The anger burned deep within him, for every enemy that had wronged his family. He had hung most of his, at Castle Black, but his true enemy was advancing farther each day.

After a while, Enrin placed a hand on his shoulder. He paused, mid strike, and when he looked at her, her eyes were gentle.

"Come," she said, laying her tool down against the wall. The Dothraki had long given up for the night, retreating one by one from the cavern. "You should eat," Enrin said, her voice like she was coaxing a scared animal from its burrow. He chewed his lip, but followed her, taking her hand in his as they left the cave.

Enrin placed a rough plate in front of him, piled high with bread and cheese, with some meat Missandei had arrived to share with them. She sat down in front of her own, toying with the edge of her bread, her eyes on him.

"You need to eat," she said, gently nudging him under the table with her foot. He started.

"I recall saying that to you, not so long ago," he replied, looking markedly at her untouched food. She made a point to take a bite of her meat, chewing thoughtfully. She opened her mouth to tell him that perhaps when they got back, they could spare a few men to look for Arya and Bran, wherever they may be, when a knock sounded on the door.

Jon leaped up to answer, his back stiff. Last time there had been a knock on the door, late at night, they had taken his wife.

Davos stared at him from beyond the threshold, his hands folded behind his back as they always were. "The dragon queen has asked for us in the war room, your Graces," he said, before turning to start down the hall. He turned back once to see if they would follow.

Enrin rose from the table. She winced as she did; every part of her ached from their long day, and muscles she didn't even know she had protested as she followed Jon out of the room. They walked in silence, each chewing on their own thoughts. The doors to the war room were open and Daenerys stood at the map table, her eyes wide with fury barely contained. Jon shifted slightly so his shoulder was in front of Enrin, his eyes casting the room warily.

Tyrion sat with her, pouring wine into a silver cup. "Ah," he said as they entered, his eyes finding them, "good. Come, sit. I hope we didn't interrupt your evening."

They walked slowly to the table, and Enrin's legs felt heavy as lead. She took a seat next to Jon, so close their shoulders touched. "You sent for us?"

He asked, almost sounding annoyed. Daenerys rounded on the both of them.

"The Lannister army has taken Highgarden," she said, almost spitting, "and Olenna Tyrell is dead. Their army was shattered." She turned to look into the flames again, as if asking for answers. Enrin's face had gone white.

"The Unsullied have taken Casterly Rock, but Euron Greyjoy burned our ships. They are, for lack of a better explanation, trapped." She turned to look at them again, and there was almost fear behind her anger. "I am at war, and I am losing."

"Forgive me," Jon said, his hand finding Enrin's under the lip of the table, "but what does that have to do with us?"

Daenerys swallowed, her eyes closing for a moment. "Are we not allies?" She asked, one silver brow raising. Jon mimicked her.

"We are," he said, "but I don't understand-"

"Then what would you do, King Jon?" She asked, and Enrin wondered if it would always sound strange to hear him called King. She often forgot.

"What would you do if your allies and armies were crumbling?"

Jon took a deep breath, his eyes wide. "Well," he replied, "I would seek a safe way for the Unsullied to find their way back here, to rally and rest, before we attacked again."

Daenerys almost rolled her eyes. "Yes, but how?"

Enrin realized that Daenerys stood before them, at a loss, asking for advice. Her pride got the better of her, sometimes, and this was her way of asking for help without actually asking.

"If I may," Enrin said, and Jon's head snapped around to her, "my husband is the military man, not me. But if you would like my advice..." she trailed off, but Daenerys motioned for her to continue. Tyrion was watching her curiously, his head cocked to the side as he sat in his chair.

"If there were some way to weaken the Lannister army," Enrin said, her hand toying with the ornately carved lion placed in the middle of the map, "the Unsullied could march out of enemy territory. It would take them a while to march all the way here, but since the ships are burnt, what other option do they have?"

Daenerys' brow furrowed as she mulled over her words.

"Doubtless," Jon said, as Enrin's words began to make sense, "the Lannisters will be marching back to King's Landing. In formation, to be sure, but hardly expecting an attack."

"You want me to send the Dothraki," Daenerys said, and Jon almost shrugged.

"We don't _want_ that you do anything," he said, and Enrin finished for him. "You brought us here for our council, and here we have given it." Daenerys looked to Davos, who didn't quail under her gaze. "I am here to advise the King and Queen in the North," he said, "but here I would not advise against their words."

Tyrion looked doubtful. "Would they go if you told them to go?"

At this point, Daenerys did roll her eyes. "They will not go alone."

Her eyes cast out the great open window, to where her dragons slept on a grassy embankment over the cliffs. They looked peaceful there, surrounded by the open air. Something clicked in Enrin's head.

"You mean to fly them there?" She asked, almost rising. Daenerys shook her head. "Only Drogon," she answered, "Viserion and Rhaegal will remain here, to protect my throne while I take care of this Lannister army."

Jon looked troubled, but said nothing. Daenerys' jaw was set and square, much like Enrin's was when she had decided no one could change their mind.

"I mean to leave now," the dragon queen said, "but first."

She spoke to the Dothraki guards stationed about the room, and Jon stiffened as two strode toward them. From their hands they produced Longclaw, and Enrin's bow and arrows. He took them, baffled.

"I don't anticipate an attack while I'm away," Daenerys said, her hands folded neatly in front of her, "but if something should happen, I thought you would like to have your weapons about you. I shall put my trust in you." She looked at them pointedly. "It would be best that you not break it."

Enrin cocked an eyebrow. "We could say the same if you," she said, "Winterfell would only be a short journey for a dragon. I trust we will see it standing firm on our return."

Jon almost winced; he thought the two may fight, until Daenerys smirked.

"You shall, Queen Enrin," she said, to which Enrin replied, "Then we wish you a safe journey and a quick return, Queen Daenerys."

The air in their chambers was cold when they entered again. Jon moved to close the window as Enrin stripped off her clothes, climbing into the bed. Jon huffed at her.

"You haven't finished your dinner," he said, kicking his boots off at the edge of the room. Her eyes were already closed as she encased herself in the furs, staving off the chill.

"Nor have you," she said, her words thick with sleep. She felt Jon smile from across the room. He climbed in behind her after a few moments and she turned to wrap herself in him rather than the blankets. He kissed her, slowly, his hands toying with her hair. She wanted it to deepen, to take him here and now, but even as they broke apart she found herself slipping under the veil of sleep once more. He told her that he loved her, and rested his head on hers, their chests rising and falling in a single rhythm.


	13. Chapter 13

**It's a long one ;) enjoy!**

* * *

They awoke to the sound of silence.

The island hadn't been so quiet in the time that they had been there. The air whistled bleakly across the beaches. Even the sea was quiet; slowly rolling up and down the sand in a soft rhythm. Erin walked alone, her quiver slung over her back. Her hair whipped about her face as she looked out at the sea, seven wolves stalking behind her like shadows. The pups were almost as big as their mother by now, their fur growing gray and white, like their father's before them.

Enrin squinted into the waves as a long boat appeared around the corner of the cliffs. She knocked an arrow.

The boat was filled with men who wore sea creatures on their mail that Enrin had never seen. One stood and looked on as the boat docked, sliding up onto the sand. He leaped out, his arms held at an awkward angle.

"Who are you?" He asked, his tone wary as he strode up the beach toward her. She half raised her bow, and the wolves snarled.

"Who are _you_?" She fired back, the arrow aimed at his navel. She heard Jon curse from far behind her.

The boy's eyes were blue as the sea, but they were watery and fearful. His men milled around him, unsure. One of the pups, a big male, snapped as they drew closer. Ghost paced behind them, his teeth sheathed.

"Enrin, seven hells-"

Jon reached them then, slightly out of breath like he had run the rest of the way down the stairs to meet them at the water. As his eyes found the boy in front of her, he stopped short, his breath catching.

"Jon?" The blue eyed boy asked, his tone surprised, "I didn't know you were here."

Davos had appeared with Jon, and he stood on Enrin's other side, his nose twitching nervously. In a single movement, Jon stalked forward and gripped the boy by the front of his shirt. Enrin raised her arrow higher.

"What you did for Sansa," Jon spat, his face an inch from the boy's, "is the only reason I'm not killing you. Right here, right now."

"You can lower that arrow, Your Grace," Davos whispered to her, leaning down to reach her, "they've long known each other."

Enrin's brow furrowed, and she dropped her arrow, but left it knocked.

"I've come to ask the queen to help me get my sister back," the fearful boy said, his lip twitching, "where is she?"

Enrin stepped forward then, placing her hand over Jon's where it gripped at the neck of the other man's throat. He released him, however reluctantly. "She's not here," Enrin said, standing shoulder with Jon again, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, "you may wait for her within, if you know her so well."

They regarded each other, both dubious. "I'm Theon Greyjoy," he said finally, his tone insolent, "are you so important to give me orders?"

Jon gripped him again in a moment, pushing himself between Enrin and Theon, his hand pulling skin now along with his shirt.

"Speak to my wife like that again," he snarled, a challenge on his lips.

"Jon, please," Enrin pleaded, pulling them apart again, "stop it, the both of you. Bloody pissing contest." She thought she heard Davos laugh.

"Go and await Queen Daenerys' return, Theon Greyjoy," she said, "and take your men with you."

They began to move up the beach then, wary eyes watching her as they slunk away.

Jon heaved a sigh, pulling his cloak about him as the wind howled. "You left before I woke this morning," he said, his words bordering on accusatory. She nodded. "I've spent far too much time inside in the last fortnight," she said, her smile apologetic. He took her hand in his. "I've sent a raven home. Your father is to lead a host of the free-folk to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. I wanted to tell you before I sent it, but..."

Enrin bit her lip, but touched his face gently. "I'm sorry I left," she said, her gut roiling with apprehension at his words, "come and walk with me. I can't stay still."

Jon smiled, because he knew.

* * *

They faced the cliffs, their cloaks billowing about them as they watched the waves roll in and out. Their silence was comfortable as they leaned against each other.

It was broken as quickly as it had come.

They heard the great flap of the wings before they saw it, and then the great black beast came into view. It circled once before landing on the cliff, its weight shaking the stone and sending pebbles tumbling into the sea. It came toward them, its mouth open in a great roar, and for the first time Enrin was afraid.

Jon pressed her behind him as the dragon advanced. It stopped inches from him, snarling into his face. Fear gripped him as he stared at the teeth, bigger than his palm. What does one do when faced with a mythical beast?

Jon stripped off his glove and held his hand up for the dragon to sniff.

Enrin looked out from behind him, eyes wild, ready to rip his hand away. But the beast only took a long drag of his scent, and she swore its eyes softened. It stretched its gaping maw toward him and pressed its nose into his hand.

The moment lasted forever, between man and dragon. They regarded each other in mutual respect, as Jon stroked his nose. Enrin's eyes were wide with alarm as she watched; suddenly she felt as if she were intruding.

Daenerys walked off Drogon's wing and as she did, the great beast turned and took to the sky. His brothers screeched in greeting to him as he joined them in circling above the castle, their wing strokes like heartbeats in the air.

"They're beautiful aren't they?" She asked, and they only nodded, not daring to disagree.

"You weren't gone long," Jon remarked as they began their trek back to the castle. They walked three abreast, Enrin in the middle of them, somewhat of a buffer.

"And I have fewer enemies today than I did yesterday." Daenerys said, turning to Enrin, who avoided her gaze. "That troubles you."

Enrin all but shrugged. "I can't say I blame you...for doing it," Enrin replied, "but it wasn't exactly what we meant. We said weaken, not wipe out."

Daenerys regarded her coolly. "Would you not take the chance on wiping out your enemies army if you could?"

Enrin slung her bow higher on her shoulder. "I would," she replied, "but the dead are not an army you can negotiate with."

"It's Lord Tyrion's place to advise you," Jon added as they neared the castle, "not ours."

"And yet," Daenerys said, "I have grown to value your council, along with his."

A host of Dothraki met them at the keep, and one spoke in that guttural tongue again. Daenerys looked confused, until a man stepped out from behind the hulking guard.

"He _is_ my friend," she said, as the man knelt in front of her. Enrin sensed something else between them then, and she could place it as more than friendship, but she remained silent beside Jon, who looked on doubtfully.

He asked to return to her service, to which Daenerys immediately agreed. She embraced him then, like two old friends, and Enrin knew there was something there between them that neither wanted to admit.

"Jon, Enrin," Daenerys said, her eyes never leaving the man in front of her, "this is Ser Jorah Mormont. Ser Jorah, the King and Queen in the North."

Jon's eyes widened a fraction. "I served with your father at Castle Black," he said, stepping forward to shake Jorah Mormont's hand, "he was a good man. My wife, Enrin," Jon said, and Enrin stepped forward.

Jorah looked confused, but hid it well for a moment, he took Enrin's hand in his and kissed it, ever the gentleman.

"Come," Daenerys said, sliding her arm through Jorah's. Jon and Enrin followed as the two walked close together, heads bent, whispering.

"What was that?" Enrin asked, elbowing Jon in his ribs gently. His eyes stayed forward as they followed Daenerys and Jorah into the darkness of the keep. Enrin's hair fell in a disarray about her shoulders as the wind disappeared, and Jon reached over to gently tug it back into place. "With the dragon," she said, searching what she could see of his face in the darkness. He looked just as perturbed as she did. "I don't know," was all he replied, as they entered the war room where Tyrion, Missandei and Davos were waiting. They greeted each other with warm smiles and firm handshakes, and Enrin and Jon stood apart, ever the outsiders. Daenerys rounded the table, stripping away lion figurines as she did.

"Cersei will likely form a counter attack," Tyrion began as Enrin and Jon joined them around the table. Jorah stood, calm and collected, by Daenerys' right shoulder. "Then we should form our own," Daenerys replied, her eyes scanning the map in front of them.

"Forgive me," Jon spoke out then, his voice loud in an otherwise quiet chamber, "but there's no time for this. The dead advance farther each day. You gave us your word that you would help us in the Great War, Daenerys," her name sounded foreign in his tongue as he said it aloud, "if you do not intend, Enrin and I would like to leave."

Daenerys cocked one of her eyebrows, folding her arms. "For all we know, Jon, the dead are no closer than they were a fortnight ago."

His eyes found Enrin's then, and it alarmed her. There was an apology there, silent and true. He produced a raven scroll from the inside of his sleeve, and she wondered how long it had been there. Her eyes narrowed.

"What is that?" She asked, nearly rising from the table. Jon chewed on the inside of his lip, and he looked almost afraid.

"My brother," he said, his voice so quiet they strained to hear him over the crackling of the flames, "my brother is alive. Bran. He's returned home to Winterfell. He says the dead are marching and have been for some time. He saw this in a vision." Jon looked around at them all, as Enrin plucked the scroll from his fingers. "Eastwatch," she said, her words almost a gasp, "my father is on his way to Eastwatch." She rounded on him, and even Daenerys leaned away from them. "Jon," she said, doing everything she could to keep her voice steady, "when did you get this? Was it before or after you sent my father there?" He was silent, but his eyes were sad. He reached for her hand and she yanked it away from him. " _Answer_ me."

He sighed. The expression on his face was all the answer she needed. Her nostrils flared, but she turned from him, to face the party around them. She would not fight with him, not here, in front of these people who were still strangers.

"It is more imperative now than ever that we convince Cersei Lannister that the dead are real," she began, pausing as if waiting for someone to disagree. When none did, she raged on. "Invite her here to see the drawings in the cave," she offered, and each eye that was on her looked doubtful. "I know my sister better than anyone here," Tyrion said, shaking his mane of shaggy blonde hair, "she will not leave King's Landing." Frustration mounted in Enrin as she stared at the man, watching an idea from behind his eyes. "If there was only a way..." he started, but trailed away, his eyes in the distance.

"A way to bring the dead to her?" Jon finished for him, as Davos shifted uncomfortably at his elbow. Daenerys' silver brows knit together. "I thought we were trying to avoid bringing the army of the dead south of the wall," she almost exclaimed, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. "We wouldn't need the army," Tyrion offered, casting his eyes warily about him, "we would only need one."

"Aye," she heard Jon speak behind her, "one would be enough."

She turned to face him, anger flashing behind her eyes like lightning. "No."

Jon's face was torn, and this time when he reached for her, she let him.

"With the Queen's permission," Jorah spoke from behind them all, "I will go north and take one."

"No," she whispered, and Enrin spoke with her.

"I returned so that I could serve you," Jorah said, his words almost a plea, "let me serve you." They watched each other for a beat, time stretching forever in the long moment. Finally, Daenerys nodded.

Enrin turned to face Jon, and when she did, his eyes were sad.

"You know the free folk won't follow Ser Jorah alone," he said, only to her, everyone else in the room evaporated. "Then I'll go, too," she said, and continued before Jon could overspeak her, "they're _our_ people, but they were _mine_ first."

"While you squabble over who walks first to their death," Tyrion said, standing from his chair, "I would kindly ask Ser Davos to smuggle me into King's Landing to treat with my brother." Their eyes moved to the man seated, who only nodded once.

"I won't have my hand murdered," Daenerys spat, her words like ice. Tyrion turned to her.

"What other choice is there?"

They looked at each other then, silent, their eyes meeting in turn.

"I think you're all mad," Missandei spoke suddenly, and they laughed, but it did not touch their eyes.

* * *

Tyrion and Davos departed that night, saying their farewells in the cover of darkness. Enrin and Jon watched the boat from their window, long until it disappeared in the night. She had words for him, but none that could convey exactly what she felt. She had never been good with words.

She slammed her cup of wine down onto the table and it spilled over her fingers, sticky and red.

"I won't allow it," she said, leaning there, unable to meet his eyes. She felt him sigh from by the window.

"I'm not asking you."

She whipped about, her chest heaving. "If you think I'm going to just let you go north of the wall on this _suicide mission_ , you are sorely mistaken," she growled, and his face reflected none of her ire. It was concealed well, behind his calm mask.

"I've said it a hundred times, and I'll say it again," his words were measured, as if she didn't understand, "I am not asking you."

She felt as if she could rip her hair out, or dig her fingers into him so deep that she touched his bones. Her hands balled into fists. His serenity only made it that much worse.

"Then I should best start packing," she said, and turned from him again. She began to rummage in their chest of things, not knowing what she was looking for.

"Enrin."

She pulled out some of his shirts, laying them aside on the bed.

" _Enrin_."

She dug for her second quiver of arrows, hidden deep beneath the rest of their things.

"ENRIN, SEVEN FUCKING HELLS!"

Her breath caught as he gripped her arm, yanking her away from the chest. His grip was gentle as he pulled her around to face him, but his eyes were not.

"You are not coming north of the Wall. Not now. Not during this," his words were ice, biting at her as she could only stare at him. "If you're there, the only person who won't be coming home, is me. I can't keep them safe, keep your father safe, if I'm too busy protecting you." She pulled her arm from his grip, and they stood toe to toe, both formidable in their anger. "I don't need protecting," she said, and even to herself she sounded like an errant child. "Aye," Jon said, "I believe that, but that doesn't mean that I won't be doing it anyway." They squared up again, and she searched his face. She had every line of it memorized by now.

"I can't," Jon said, and his words were tired, his soul heavy. He couldn't have her there, in the face of that danger. His mind rejected even the passing thought. What he felt for her trumped everything; himself, his honor, everything. He knew the risks of going, he knew what it meant. He wanted to stay with her more than anything. They both knew that if she asked him, he would.

But she couldn't.

"You'll...you'll take the wolves with you, then," she whispered, her voice choked, "the grown wolves. You'll take them both. And you'll come back to me."

His hands found the shirt she wore as he ripped it over her head. She made quick work of his leathers as they both kicked their boots from their feet. He tore the ties to her pants, barely feeling them beneath his fingers. In one swift motion he pushed her onto the bed, and then he was in her, moving quick and hard. She met him for every thrust, their breath coming in short gasps. She felt herself beginning to quicken beneath him, and her lips found his ear. "Promise me," she whispered as she tightened around him. He stilled deep inside her, his head tucked into the curve of her neck. "I promise," he groaned, "I will always come back to you." And his lips found hers again.

* * *

He had said that they would depart when Davos and Tyrion returned, and not before. "Only then," he said as they lay together, "not before. Another week, perhaps."

They returned four days later.

Enrin watched the boat slide onto the sand with ice in her veins. She greeted Davos warmly, clasping his hand in hers. She had grown very fond of this man, she realized.

Another body was in the boat, younger than the rest, his black hair close cropped to his head. She raised an eyebrow at Davos in question. "You left as two and picked up a stray?"

The boy marched toward Jon, his shoulders stiff with purpose.

"Names Gendry, Your Graces," he said immediately, "Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son."

Jon's eyes widened as he turned to stare at Davos for a moment. "Our fathers were honest friends," Gendry said, his light eyes casting around him, "why shouldn't we be?"

"Aye," Jon said, reaching out to shake his hand, "and we could use the help."

He wanted to accompany them north of the wall, and Jon didn't refuse him. Enrin breathed a sigh of relief; it meant one more weapon that would be there to save Jon's life.

Jorah appeared with them then, a pack slung across his shoulder. Daenerys followed close behind. Enrin's gut twisted.

"We had better head off," Jorah said as they neared, "before the high tide."

He strode toward the boat, Davos and Gendry close on his heels. Daenerys and Jorah stood for a moment, their hands clasped together. They stared into each other's eyes, before Jorah bent to kiss her hands in his.

The wolves stalked down the beach, looking solemn. Enrin fell to one knee as they neared, and Night pressed her forehead to Enrin's as they both closed their eyes. She and Ghost together stalked toward one of the longboats, leaping inside to sit and wait impatiently. The pups whined at Enrin's hip.

She felt Jon's arm brush her shoulder as he turned to face her. He wore Longclaw at his waist, his fur cloak piled high over his shoulders. His eyes echoed her own fear. She reached out to touch his face, her fingers twirling a stray curl that had fallen loose. "Don't forget your promise," she said, trying for lightheartedness but she only succeeded in sounding like she was being strangled.

"I won't," he said, and then his lips were on hers. Every time was like the first time, but this was different. They were desperate, clinging to each other, each pouring everything they had into their kiss. Too soon, it was over, and too soon Jon was striding quickly for the boat, for if he did not go now, he would stay behind with her.

She watched them push away from shore, as he sat with the wolves on either side of him, his cloak billowing about him. She waited until the boat had disappeared behind the cliffs, and then she watched still, long into the night.

* * *

As much as he hated to admit it, Jon had missed the snow.

It was frigid as they trudged into Eastwatch, and not much warmer as they entered the keep. He was almost lifted off his feet by Tormund as the red headed man rushed him, enveloping him in a rib cracking hug that left Jon breathless. His eyes searched behind Jon as the rest of the small band filed inside, the wolves bringing up the rear.

"Did you manage to leave her behind?" Tormund asked, his hand on Jon's shoulder. He thought of her then, standing on the beach, her hair billowing behind her like a black cape, five wolves around her looking for guidance. His breath caught, and he only nodded.

"Good," was all Tormund managed to say, before he rounded on Davos. "Isn't it your job to stop him from making fucking stupid decisions like this?"

Davos only shrugged. "I'm not very good at my job." Tormund huffed. "You really want to go out there again?" Once more Jon nodded, taking a long drag of the ale Davos had poured into his cup. One thing he did not miss was the Night's Watch excuse for beer. Tormund almost laughed. "Well," he said, "seems you're not the only ones."

He led them back across the hallways, deep into where the keep had been dug into the ice of the Wall. Water trickled down in a dulcet rhythm where the torches lit their way. In a cell sat three men, huddled closer to each other for warmth. As they approached, the largest of the men sat up. His face was scarred on one side, his hair hanging over it in lanky strands. Jon knew him immediately. "I remember you," he said, as the man turned his glare on him, "you're The Hound. I saw you once, at Winterfell. You were Joffrey's sworn shield." The Hound spat. "Fuck Joffrey," he said, his voice a deep growl.

"It's best not to speak ill of the dead, Clegane."

Gendry leaned into the cell, his eyes wide and wary. "That's Beric Dondarrion," he said, pointing, "and Thoros of Myr."

"You know them?" Tormund asked. "Aye, I know them," Gendry said, his voice full of contempt, "they sold me to the red witch for twenty gold dragons. You know she wanted to kill me?"

"Ah," Thoros of Myr said, the gap in his tooth visible as he smiled, "and yet here you are."

He rattled the bars of the cell. "Leave them in there to rot, for all I care," Gendry said, leaning away into the shadows.

"You're going north of the Wall," Beric said, and it wasn't a question, "allow us to come with you."

"It's no place for you," Jon dismissed. He was antsy, itching to be on his way. The faster they started the damn trek, the faster he was home to his wife. "And what makes you say that it's a place for you?" Beric watched him with his single eye, a small smile playing beneath his beard. Each man here had a reason to hate the other, a reason for wanting the other dead. Jon thought of the trouble it would cause to release them from the cell. "We're all on the same side," he said, taking the keys from Tormund's hand.

"How do you figure?" Gendry asked, distrust clear in his tone.

"We're all breathing."

* * *

The wind whistled across the plains as they walked. It felt like they had been there for days, but it had only been hours since they had raised the tunnel's gate. The sun rose over the mountains, coloring the sky with blood reds and golds. The ice was a strange color here; it was so blue, almost white, and the color reminded Jon of Enrin's eyes.

As they walked, he told Jorah stories of his father. How he had been hard, but kind, with words of gruff advice. "We avenged him," Jon said, "I want you to know that. Every mutineer met justice, I made sure of it."

"He was a good man," Jorah agreed, "he deserved a better son." Jon had drawn Longclaw from his hip, but Jorah refused it. "May it serve you well," be said, "and your children after you."

Jon hiked in silence for a while after that, his mind elsewhere. He had never thought about children before; as a bastard, he hadn't wanted them, for who would want a child with no name? As a brother of the Night's Watch, he had long given up the thought of holding a newborn in his arms that was all his own. He had held Gilly's baby, once, and she had remarked that it came naturally to him. He had never asked Enrin her thoughts; war time did not allow them the luxury. He thought it may be nice, when the war was over and the country was at peace, to see her be a mother. Provided that they both survived.

He shuddered, pushing the thought far back into his mind, as Beric appeared beside him, ever silent. "You don't look like him," he remarked, and when Jon looked confused, he said, "your father. You must favor your mother." Jon shrugged. "I wouldn't know to tell you," be replied, "I never knew her."

"We serve the same God, you know," Beric said suddenly, after a long while of silence. Jon regarded him coolly. "The Lord of Light never spoke to me," he murmured finally, "I don't know why he brought me back. I don't know what I'm meant to do here."

Beric shrugged. "The Gods work in mysterious ways, Jon Snow, but there is always a reason. Have faith in that, and let it light the way," he said, and looked up to the morning, squinting his eye.

Night and Ghost padded on either side of him, their eyes scanning across the horizon. Suddenly, the Hound stopped to point.

"There," he exclaimed, pointing with a gloved hand, "the mountain that looks like an arrowhead. That's what I saw in the flames."

"We're getting close," Tormund said, and his words put a chill down Jon's spine.

* * *

"Enrin?"

The sound of the soft voice pulled her back into herself. She blinked once, twice, her eyes coming into focus. It was long after dark, and the moon shone down like a great seeing eye. The freezing waters lapped at her feet as she sat in the sand, her arms around her knees.

Daenerys stood at her shoulder, a torch in hand. She reached down to shake her again.

"Enrin, come inside," she said, her voice edging on gentle, "have some hot wine. You must be frozen."

Enrin stood slowly, her legs and hands like lead. The pups rose around her, trailing after them as they wound the high mountain stairs.

She cupped her hands around the goblet of steaming wine, letting the fire bring life back into her frozen limbs. They sat in the war room, by the roaring fire, Daenerys across from her. They regarded each other slowly.

"I know you must be worried," Enrin said finally, after her lips had returned to their pink color from blue, "about Jorah."

Daenerys scoffed. "Of course I'm worried, he is my dearest and oldest friend."

"Your...friend, is it?" Enrin said, and she smirked. Daenerys' eyes rounded on her. "My _friend_ ," she said, stressing the word, but as she looked into the fire, Enrin saw something flash behind her eyes.

"I'm sure it is no match for what you feel," Daenerys said, and her voice had that gentleness to it one used when talking to a sick person abed.

Enrin tensed, draining her wine. "He promised me," she said, her words only above a whisper, "he promised me that he would come back. He will. I know that he will."

Daenerys only nodded. They sat for a long while, until the dawn turned to dusk, needing no words, just the comfort of another person.

Quick footsteps sounded down the hall, and Tyrion burst into the room like a madman, his breath coming in deep huffs. "Your Graces," he said, and Enrin leaped from her chair. With shaking fingers he gave to Daenerys a raven scroll, hastily rolled and written. Her eyes scanned it quickly before she stood, her hands knotted.

"They're in trouble," was all she said, before she took to the window and called for her dragons before either of them could advise against it. Drogon landed on the balcony without, as best he could, and she crawled on to his back before Enrin's breath had left her lips. Tyrion glanced at her, his eyes hard with panic.

Her eyes clouded and rolled back.

Night snarled, pacing across the rock, Ghost at her side. The wight at her feet raged, its teeth gnashing against the bag covering its head. Every instinct told her to put her teeth in it, to gnaw its head off, but Jon had reprimanded her when she had gotten too close. Even she knew they needed this thing moving.

They surrounded them on all sides, a hundred thousand at least, the sounds of their hunger making a raucous rhythm around them. The frozen lake of ice was the only protection between them and the army of the dead. The men sat, sleeping fitfully, huddling for warmth in the long night. The one called Gendry had run for Eastwatch hours ago; and the men did not know when their plea for help would be answered.

The big one stood, the scars on his face hidden by the oncoming darkness. The body they burned still crackled below them. Thoros of Myr had not made it through the night.

He picked up a rock, weighing it in his hands, before he launched it across the ice. It connected with a particularly decayed wight, knocking it's jaw clean off. He reached for another rock, heavier this time, and before Night could snarl a warning at him, he threw it.

The rock skidded across the ice, stopping in front of the wights like an invitation.

They came slowly at first, one by one, wary of the water below them. The Hound cut them down first with Gendry's hammer, smashing them through the ice into the blackness below.

And as quickly as it began, they all rushed toward them.

Jon hacked with his sword, taking out two and three at a time. Night closed her jaws around an arm, ripping it clean off. She went for the throat of every wight that dared come near, backing against Jon like a buffer. Ghost had his other side as they ripped and tore at the dead around them, black congealed blood spraying the air. The taste as foul, but she powered on, her claws thick with blood and skin.

"Fall back!" Jon shouted as the dead came ever closer, rushing them like a great gray wave. The climbed higher on the rock, reaching the middle of the lake. The dead came from behind them now too, thousands upon thousands of them at once. Night ripped a skeleton from Ghost's back, crunching its skull between her teeth.

Fire rained from the sky, splitting the ice and sending the flaming dead down into its depths. The dragon queen wheeled her mount, the fire burning from its throat. It's brothers followed, lighting up the night sky with their hot breath. Thousands and thousands of wights took flame, the bones splitting from bones in a macabre shower. He ice around them bad all but melted as Daenerys landed, her hand reaching for Jorah. He climbed onto the back of the dragon, spearing their stolen wight on one of its spikes. It writhed, screeching. Jon stood below them, cutting down the wights who had managed to escape the flames. Night and Ghost both snarled a warning at him. They were too busy paying attention to each other, none of them noticed the Night King throw his spear.

It struck the golden dragon in the throat, and his flames died in his mouth. He screeched, red blood spraying across the sky. Daenerys clutched to Drogon as he reared, screaming his fury.

His brother fell, skidding across the ice.

The light left Viserion's eyes as he sank below the water, the inky blackness swallowing him whole.

"Go!" Jon screamed, whirling around and making his way back to them, cutting down wights as he went. "Go, now! _Leave_!"

Daenerys hesitated as the Night King raised another spear, aimed at Drogon. Rhaegal whirled, and fled, his winds beating the air and taking him higher and higher, away from the danger. Drogon took to the air clumsily, as Jon made his way to them.

Two dead men catapulted from the water, their bony hands catching his jacket.

They brought Jon down with him into the ice, and he sank far below the surface. Night skidded to a halt.

 _Go, go, go,_ a part of her said, _Night, save him_. And she almost walked to the edge of the water.

The great black she wolf shook her head. Ghost howled.

She took his scruff in her mouth and dragged him away, pulling him along as he stumbled. Drogon sailed away from them in the sky, for a wolf cannot hold onto a dragon; and so they ran.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi hello and we're starting to get into the nitty gritty action parts now! Enjoy! :)**

* * *

She was suddenly aware that she was screaming.

Tyrion shook her violently as she lay crumbled on the floor of the war room, calling her name as she thrashed. "Enrin," he shouted, "Enrin, please!"

Her eyes flashed open, the world around her a blur. Tears sprang from her eyes, hot and wet, burning her skin as they went. She felt the tracks of them all the way down to her bones, and she covered her face. "What did you see?" Tyrion asked, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. Panic constricted his voice, and his fingers shook. "He promised me," was all she said, her words a desperate gasp, "he promised me."

She dragged air into her lungs, her head spinning, but it was never enough. Her sleeve was torn and her elbow was bloody where she had landed on it after she had fallen. Pain lanced through it, but she did not notice.

She told him what she had seen between her gasping breaths and bouts of dizziness, the air she pulled into her lungs whistled away like someone had stuck them with a thousand holes. "Oh, my lady," was all Tyrion could say, his voice filled with sadness.

"I have to go back," she whispered, as the fire swam in front of her eyes.

Ghost howled again, his voice full of despair. Night had never heard him make such noise. She snarled at him, warning him to keep quiet. The army of the dead retreated back across the ice; the living were all gone, and their time there had come to an end.

Suddenly, Ghost's ears perked, and he stopped at the edge of the lake.

Jon shot up from the water, his lungs burning as he pulled the freezing air into them. He dug his sword into the ice as he hurled himself out of what would have been his grave. He rested his cheek against the freezing ground, every muscle protesting as he tried to push himself up. He could feel his furs freezing around him as he stood, his leg searing in pain. Blood stained the white of his pants, glistening as it froze. He felt he could have slept, right there on the ice, letting the cold take his limbs. But it did not matter. Nothing mattered. He had made a promise to his wife, and he intented to keep it.

He made his way slowly across the ice, and as he neared the edge, the dead began to notice him. One by one they turned, their jaws gnashing together, stumbling toward him in a horde. He breathed heavily, pain surging through his leg with each step. He turned to face them with his sword half raised, and he willed his arms to raise it higher, to fight them off, but he was cold and tired and the world was darkening around the edges. He could only think of Enrin, and perhaps he said her name.

The wolves raced toward him, the ice making their feet slow. Ghost roared in frustration.

The hoofbeats echoed from the mountain side as the black stallion powered through the line of the dead. It's rider swung a flaming chain about him, crushing skulls as the flames ate away at the dead men as they screamed. The horse lashed out with its front legs, rearing, sending a shower of bones in its wake as it galloped toward Jon, overtaking him. The rider leaped off the back of the horse as it still moved, pulling his cloak down from his face.

His skin was blue and dead, his nose long and angular like his cheekbones, but the eyes were the same.

"Uncle Benjen," Jon whispered, his arms falling to his sides like broken limbs of a tree, "how?" Benjen reached him then, his hands gripping the back of his jacket hard as he swung him up into the saddle of his horse.

"You ride for the pass," he said, pushing the reins into Jon's hands. They shook as he balled his hands into fists. "Come with me," he said, not hiding the pleading in his voice. His uncle regarded him, his hand gripping his shoulder for a moment. "There's no time," he said, and slapped the horse's rear. It shot off into the snow as the wolves caught up with him, flanking him on either side as Jon watched his uncle fight. And fight he did, for a moment, while he could, before the dead swarmed over him. Jon had no time to mourn as the black courser heaved beneath him, carrying him into the pass as if wings were there to aid its feet.

Enrin stood on the cliffs, her wolf skin cloak wrapped about her hastily. Each gust of wind almost sent her over the precipice in desperation; but it was never Daenerys, never her husband, never anything more than wind. She cursed it as she waited, Tyrion pacing anxiously beside her.

"They could have sailed," he said, his hands wringing in front of him. "Why would they?" She asked, her eyes never leaving the horizon. Daenerys would never sail home, slowly, so slowly, while Enrin's husband lay sick abed. She hoped for that much.

They heard the dragons before they saw them, and Enrin thought she may weep when the great black beast appeared above them, circling lower twice before it came to a thudding halt close to the castle gates. Jorah was the first to touch the ground, clasping Jon under his arms as he lowered him to the earth. Enrin began to walk toward them, and suddenly she was running, flinging herself to the ground and pulling Jon's head into her lap. His eyes rolled, but saw nothing. His breath came from his lips in short, shuddering gasps, and blood wept steadily from the gash in his leg. "The medicine women," Tyrion said, as Gendry and Jorah lifted Jon together and pulled him away from her. She clutched at him for a moment, before Tyrion gently pried her hands away. She remained on her knees, her shoulders sagging. There was blood on her hands.

Daenerys gripped her elbow and hauled her up, their eyes meeting for a moment. What Enrin saw there made her feel shame. Jon was alive, and had returned to her, but she had watched Daenerys' dragon die with Night's eyes. They watched each other for a moment, before Enrin pulled the silver girl to her, hugging her fiercely.

"Daenerys," she said, clutching her as her sobbing wracked her body, "I'm so sorry. Your...your son. I'm so sorry."

They stood for moments on moments, and Enrin let Daenerys cry, for what else could a mother do when she loses her son?

They broke apart, then, as Jorah appeared at their side. He said nothing, but took Daenerys' hand gently in his own.

"Your Grace," he said, acknowledging Enrin then, "they await you in your chambers." Enrin's hand was still on Daenerys' arm as she started, but halted, blue eyes searching lavender.

"Go," Daenerys said, squeezing her hand gently. And then she turned and ran.

The halls seemed to stretch forever as Enrin took them at a run, skidding around corners so fast that she almost hit the walls. The door to their chambers were left open and light from the candles spilled into the hall.

The medicine women hovered over him as he lay covered in furs, the skin of his chest blackening with bruises. His breathing had slowed, but was still labored, his lips slowly returning to their pink color. Gendry and Missandei stood by, milling about the window as she entered. The wizened women took needle and silk to his leg where it had been slit from hip to mid thigh. They spoke in hushed tones, in the language Enrin did not understand. She turned to Missandei and asked, "What do they say?"

The young girl cleared her throat, swallowing nervously. "They say he has the freezing sickness, Your Grace," she said, her fingers nervously picking at one of her sleeves, "but with hot wine and warmth, that will soon pass. He lost a great deal of his life's blood from the wound in his leg, but since they have sewed it, that will heal as well." Her eyes were gentle, almost relieved. "They say that he will live, Your Grace."

She turned to Gendry then. "Did you get what you went for? Or was this all for nothing?" Gendry nodded, unable to hide the excitement from his tone. "Davos sails back with it on the ship, Your Grace," he said, his eyes bright, "with that and those wolves of yours. You should have seen them in battle, Your Grace. They were glorious." Enrin swallowed the lump in her throat as relief flooded through her. "And my father?" She asked, as the medicine women slowly backed from the room, leaving them alone.

"He stayed behind at Eastwatch, Your Grace. Said to tell you that if those dead fuckers are coming, he's going to get them before they can get to you."

She reached out and touched his arm gently, and then Missandei's as they stood with her. Jon gasped from the bed.

"Leave us," she said quietly, "and thank you."

He did not wake, only coughed and winced in his sleep. She sat watching him for hours, day or weeks, she could not tell. The bandage around his leg was stained with blood already. She took fresh wraps from the table beside the bed, reaching over to change them.

"Gently."

She nearly leaped out of her skin as his voice sounded behind her, weak as a newborn's wail. His eyes opened a fraction, meeting hers, and she wanted to say something sweet and tell him how much she had missed him.

"You stupid fucking man," she whispered, her voice filled with something she couldn't explain, "you stupid, stupid man. You had to be the hero, didn't you? You couldn't just climb on the dragon with the rest of them?" His lips cracked and bled as he smirked, a small thing, and it sucked more energy out of him than he would like to admit. "Aye," he replied, "but would you love me still if I weren't a stupid man?"

She reached out gingerly to push a lock of his hair from his eyes, and he reached to catch her hand, wincing as he did. "Lie with me," he said, and he pulled the covers away so she could climb in beside him. She lay on her side, facing him, her head resting on the pillow. "That's too far away," he remarked, rolling his head to the side to look at her. It was the only part of his body that didn't protest movement.

She shook her head, burying herself under the furs with him, pulling them up to his chin. Her hand grasped his, gently. "No closer," she said, "not until you're better." Jon scoffed. "I'm alright," he said, as he coughed again, groaning as his abdomen spasmed. "Sleep," she ordered, her voice stern, but he only turned to face her again. "Kiss me," he said, "and then I'll sleep."

She leaned into him, pressing her lips to his with a feather light touch. Jon tried to deepen the kiss, to no avail, and she broke away from him. "Sleep," she said again, more urgent this time, and sleep he did, his hand gripping hers like it was the only thing that held him in this world.

* * *

The knock on the door woke them both as the early morning light spilled through the window. Jon struggled to rise, but Enrin placed a soft hand on his chest to push him back down. She pulled the door open, straightening her shirt.

Daenerys stood before before her, her dress black and demure. Her hair that was so often braided intricately atop her head hung loose, curling down her back. Enrin stepped aside to allow her passage into the room.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Daenerys said, taking a seat on the stool by Jon's head. He had managed to push himself up into a sitting position. She knew that he didn't want to seem weak in front of their rival queen, as tenuous as their alliance was. She brought him water anyway, making sure he drank before she allowed any of them to speak.

Daenerys wrung her hands, her teeth finding the inside of her cheek. "Is something wrong?" Enrin asked after a few moments of silence. Daenerys shook her head. "No," she said, her voice smaller than they had ever heard it, "I just...I've come to say thank you."

"What for?" Jon asked, reaching for his water again. Daenerys took a deep, shuddering breath. "You…you stayed to defend my children, after Viserion fell. You didn't have to do that, but you did it anyway."

Jon almost shrugged, pain lancing through his chest as he did. He hid it well, only a slight grimace pulling at the side of his mouth. "Aye," he said, his brows knitting together in confusion, "what else was there to do?" Daenerys swallowed again, her eyes brimming with emotion. She reached out to touch his arm gently. "I don't know how to thank you, my friend."

Jon almost smirked. "Are we friends now?" he asked, his smile good natured. "In any case," he continued, "it is me who should be thanking you."

Daenerys only shook her head, averting her eyes to her lap. When she looked up again, they were fierce and hard. "We are going to destroy the Night King and his army. We will do it together. You both have my word."

She stood then, her back straight as an arrow. "And," she began, looking from Enrin to Jon in turn, "I believe that it is time for us to revisit the terms of our alliance."

Enrin stiffened, moving closer to Jon, who's face turned white.

"The North is yours," Daenerys said, "provided there is anything left of it when the Great War is done. The Iron Throne is mine by right, but as you've told me many times before, the North is too great to be tamed by some southern outsider," she smiled at them then, "and I am, by every definition, a southern outsider."

Enrin tried and failed to hide the shock in her expression. Jon's eyes flashed to her, wide, before he turned back to Daenerys.

"The King and Queen in the North shall remain King and Queen in the North, and I shall rule the remaining six kingdoms with no contest from you or your people. You will not take up arms against me, and in return I will leave you and the North to your devices. Do I have your word?"

Jon's eyes found Enrin's then, their wordless communication taking less than a fleeting moment. Enrin nodded once.

"We never wanted the Iron Throne," Jon replied, "only to be left in peace. Yes, you have our word. So long as the North is left as an independent kingdom on its own, we will not make an attempt to take the Iron Throne from you. You have our word."

Something akin to relief flashed across Daenerys' face. "As soon as you are well enough for travel, we shall all sail to King's Landing, all of us together."

Jon pushed himself higher in the bed. "I can heal on a boat as well as I can heal here," he said, almost belligerent in his stubbornness, "we should start preparations today." Daenerys' eyes flashed to Enrin, who sat conflicted.

After many moments she finally spoke, her words surefooted.

"We should begin preparations today," she said, "so that when Davos returns, we can sail for King's Landing immediately." They both rounded on her, looking incredulous. Jon had half expected it to turn into another fight, but his wife only shrugged.

"I want to go home," she said facing Daenerys, and then she turned to Jon, "I want to take you home. So we can be with our people."

"I shall send my men to prepare the ships," Daenerys said, before she took her leave, inclining her head to both of them.

The door shut softly behind her as Enrin curled up in the bed again, and Jon rolled over to face her.

"Thank you for not disagreeing with me," he whispered. The meeting had taken what little strength he had and lapped at it eagerly. His eyelids drooped and he fought to keep them open, memorizing her face. "I won't leave you again," he said, his voice muddled with sleep, "things go to shit when you're not there."

Enrin laughed, a small sound, and he clung to it, committing the sound to memory. "I was there," she confessed, and his eyes snapped open again. "I watched, through Night's eyes."

Jon scoffed. "I should have known you would," he said, but he laughed anyway. She took his hand again, and she leaned forward to press her lips to his. "Sleep a while longer," she said, getting as close as she dared without touching him. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, the sound of her laugh playing in his head like music.

* * *

The skiff slid easily onto the sand, and Davos leaped out immediately, rushing to where they stood on the beach to await him. Enrin slid her arm through Jon's as they strode to meet him; Jon winced with each step he took. His leg had been cut deep, and though it was healing, it pained him greatly to move it. The medicine women had bid him to use a cane, but he refused. Instead, he gripped Enrin as they moved slowly down the beach, and she supported some of his weight. By the time Davos had reached them, Jon felt exhausted. He leaned heavily on Enrin, but stood straight as he grasped Davos' forearm warmly. "Good to see you up and well, Your Grace," Davos said, bowing his head slightly. "The wolves anxiuosly await you on the ship, My Queen," he said to Enrin then, who heaved a deep sigh of relief. Jon gritted his teeth as they began to move down the beach again, his steps slow and labored. "Up, yes," he remarked, "but not as well as I'd like." Enrin rolled her eyes skyward. "That is only because he won't _sit_ ," she complained, and Jon grumbled next to her, "perhaps a few weeks on a boat with limited mobility will do you good." They neared the shore as Dothraki and northern soldiers alike began to pile into the longboat. Drogon and Rhaegal wheeled overhead as Daenerys made her way to the shore, a thick black cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Enrin turned to meet her, and they grasped hands for a moment, both attempting to smile reassuringly. "To King's Landing," Daenerys said, all of her silver hair bundled in thick braids at the base of her neck. Drogon alighted on the beach with a thunderous roar, but this time, Enrin did not flinch. "We shall meet you there," she said, as Daenerys moved to meet him. She turned back to Jon, who had taken his seat in the longboat. His leg was stretched out before him, straight and uncomfortably stiff. She moved next to him, pressing into his side. He relaxed into her gratefully, leaning his head onto her shoulder for a moment. "Are you afraid?" he asked as their men pushed the boat away from the shore, the waves carrying them out into the sea. She only shook her head, pulling her wolf's head cloak tighter about her shoulders as the winds whipped her hair. "I'm not afraid of Cersei Lannister," she said, as the waves lapped at the edges of the boat. The wolves found them immediately as they boarded the ship, shuffling about their feet like dogs upon their master's homecoming. Enrin wrapped her arms around Night's neck, burying her face in the she-wolf's black fur. They had sent the longboat back for the pups, who gamboled about the deck. The sailors shied away, lifting their ropes higher to avoid the biting teeth. They had grown almost as big as their mother, and Enrin and Jon had often discussed naming them, but nothing had ever stuck. They would choose their own names, in time, Enrin had decided.

Jon reached for the ropes Davos held, but Enrin caught his hand and pulled it to her. "The men will understand if you don't assist them this time," she scolded, leading him below deck of the ship. Their cabin awaited them with fresh sheets on the bed, their belongings already piled haphazardly in the corner. Jon made his way to the bed and sunk down heavily. "You don't have to hover," he said as he lay back agains the pillows, his eyes closing. She rolled her eyes again, pouring wine from the pitcher on the table. "And _don't_ roll your eyes at me," he mumbled, and she smirked. "How do you always know?"  
"I may not know much, but I know some things."  
She sat beside him on the bed, her hands moving to the laces on his breeches. His eyes shot open as he watched her, air hissing from between his teeth. "Don't get your hopes up," she said, "I've got to clean your wound." She pulled his legs free as gently as she could, but still he winced. The cut was not as angry as it once had been; the silk had long been removed as his skin had begun to stitch itself back together. The edges of it were clean and pink, the skin around it a healthy flesh color. She thanked the gods that it had not grown infected.  
Enrin poured fresh water into a basin that had been warmed over a candle. She dipped a clean cloth into its depths and ran it over his leg, her hands featherlight. Jon did his best to remain still as she worked, applying a polituce the medicine women had given them made from some leaf she had never heard of. "We should have brought some of this back with us," she remarked as she pressed it over the cut, wiping her hands clean on the cloth once more, "it could prove useful when we have to heal injured soldiers." Jon took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. The boat swayed as they pushed away from the docking of the mountains, and stilled again as they made it into open waters. Enrin swallowed once, her fear beginning to rise. "I'll protect you," Jon said as he watched the blood drain from her face. She tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. "Let us just hope that we can avoid the pirates this time," she said, as she curled next to him in the bed. Jon leaned over and his lips found hers, warm and comforting against his. "I'm not afraid," she said as they broke apart, "I just want to go home."  
Jon pulled her to him, his sigh helpless. "We will," he promised, tucking her head against his neck, "we'll go home."

The air smelled different here. It was warmer than Dragonstone and Winterfell, and Enrin had foregone her cloak as the sun shone meekly from behind gray clouds. Everything seemed too close; the red thatched roofs were so close that they each almost touched, and the sea broke against thick stone walls instead of the white sands. "How many people live here?" Jon asked from behind her, as she leaned out over the deck of the ship. "A million, give or take," Tyrion replied, his blonde hair shining in the sun. "That's more people in one city than in the whole of the North," Jon said, his tone mirroring the disgust on his face, "who would want to live that way?" Tyrion shrugged, his hand fingering the dagger he wore at his waist. Enrin could feel his unease tempering from him in waves, even more so now as they drew closer to the cove where they would dock the ship. "There is more work in the city," Tyrion said, feigning a shrug of indifference, "and the brothels are far superior." Jon grimaced so much that she almost laughed.  
"You're nervous," she commented as Tyrion came to stand by her. He closed his eyes as the salt spray wet his face, cold and unforgiving. "I could say the same for you, Your Grace," Tyrion replied, and Enrin realized how tense her back and shoulders had become. "Call me Enrin," she said, leaning out on her elbows to watch the waters lap against the sides of the ship, "it is far overdue for us to be less formal with each other, Tyrion." He laughed once, if you could call it that, but he nodded. "As you say, Enrin." They stood in silence for a few moments as Enrin turned to watch Jon behind her, deep in discussion with Davos. He leaned against the railing of the ship, only slightly favoring his left leg. The wound had all but healed during their time on the ship, and his limp had almost gone. His eyes looked nervous, pinched at the edges, and she could count the worried wrinkles in his forehead as they spoke. "I don't suppose you're happy to see your sister after so long, after what you've told us about her," she said, and Tyrion shook his head. "I would be stupid to think that there would be a warm family reunion waiting for me, with how venomous my brother was the last time we spoke; although I suppose it is him we have to thank for this looming meeting, and not me." Tyrion shrugged, his hands on the dagger again. She wondered what he would do with it, if he were ever given the chance.

She felt trapped by the city already as they left the ship, the streets colder in the shade of the buildings. Jon wrapped his arm around her waist as they walked, the Dothraki muttering in discomfort behind them. Ghost and Night stalked behind them, they and the pups forming a formidable guard around them. His chest felt tight with apprehension as they made their way through the winding alleyways. He had never been to King's Landing, but he had heard tales of the way the streets teamed with life, how the sun shone so hot one thought it might boil a man in his armor. Street vendors sold pigeon pies and fruits, leather workers and weaponeers pawned their wares as they worked, with sweat dripping from their brows. It was more different now than Jon could have ever imagined. The streets were nearly empty, a few shoeless children flitting from doorway to doorway, looking for shelter. The wind whistled against the buildings, cold, hinting at a winter that was long overdue. The Red Keep loomed high above them, and where once were candles sat open windows, black and empty. He pulled his wife closer to his side. Behind him, he heard the Hound cursing.  
They heard the marching before they saw the guards, and Jon's hand was on his sword before any of them could blink. A man led a host of soldiers before them, his hands free of weapons, his arms hanging loose at his sides. "No, no, no need," Tyrion said as the Dothraki reached for their curved blades, "I know that one."  
"Seems your friends arrived before you did," the man said, and Tyrion introduced him as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Davos shifted uncomfortably. The guards parted and Jon recognized Brienne among them, her short blonde hair pushed back severely on her head. They nodded to each other, and Jon sheathed Longclaw again. Enrin released the arrow she had been about to knock, letting it slide back into the quiver at her shoulder. "I've been sent to escort you to the meeting," Bronn said, falling into step beside Tyrion as they made their way down the broken brick paths. Night snarled as he misstepped too close. "I didn't know you were bringing your pets," Bronn said, jumping as he pulled his arm away. "They are not pets," Enrin said, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.  
The dragonpit opened before them, crumbled rock covering the edges of the stadium. It had once been great, but years of neglect had reduced it very nearly to rubble. The wolves prowled in first, their noses close to the ground. Guards stood opposite them, far across the ampitheater, their black armor glimmering dangerously. Chairs had been laid out for them under a rough canopy, but they were too on edge to sit down. Jon paced as they waited, Ghost shadowing his steps. They had been instructed to leave their weapons at the entrance, and Bronn had left the soldiers there to guard them. They stood in the middle of the stadium, unarmed, in the open. One archer could pick them off in moments.  
Enrin reached for Jon's arm as he paced and she stopped him, her fingers knotting in his cloak. "You're going to wear a hole in the ground," she said, "and you're making everyone nervous." He turned to find all of their eyes on him, and he sighed. The Hound stood stiffly by the cargo crate he had dragged with them, but the wight inside was ever silent. Jon tensed.  
She appeared then, dressed all in black, the Kingslayer striding beside her like a prowling lion. His armor was as gold as his right hand. The Mountain walked next to her, his steps rigid. His eyes stared unseeing before him. The look of them, almost all hidden beneath his black helm, made Jon's stomach twist.  
Cersei Lannister's hair was cropped short to her head, a twisting silver crown resting atop her brow. She walked to her ornate wooden chair and sat, her limbs loose, folding her hands across her lap. Jon sat as well, finally, and Enrin took the seat to his right. The wolves milled about behind them, silent, their yellow and red eyes watching their enemy's every move. Cersei made a face.  
"Where is she?"  
Tyrion shifted in his chair. "She will be here soon," he replied.  
Cersei's teeth gritted, but she said nothing. Her eye's found Jon then, and they were filled with loathing. "At least this King in the North is punctual," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "and this must be your wife. I do have to say, we had a good laugh when we heard that you'd married a wildling for the political alliance. I didn't think the wildlings _had_ a semblance of politics, or the brains for it anyway." Enrin's eyes narrowed, but Jon spoke before she could spit out an insult. "I didn't marry for a political alliance," Jon said, his voice calm, "I married her because I love her. You, of all people, should know that one doesn't get a choice in who they love." His dark eyes flitted to Jaime Lannister then, who sat stoic by Cersei's side. Her jaw formed a hard line as she gritted her teeth. "I did not come here to be insulted," Cersei spat, and Enrin raised an eyebrow. "Nor did we, but it was you who cast the first stone," she said, as Night appeared at her elbow, teeth white against the black of her fur.  
The air suddenly quickened around them as wingbeats filled the silence, and they all looked up at once. Drogon screeched and spat fire from his throat, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he landed atop the ruins of the dragonpit. Rhaegal whirled in the sky above him, circling the pit as Daenerys slowly walked down his wing onto the ground below. Drogon took to the air again, his wings spanning the length of the dragonpit as he sailed above them to join his brother.  
Daenerys walked calmly to take the /seat between Jorah and Tyrion, folding her hands neatly in her lap as she always did. Cersei raised a brow. "We've been waiting for some time," she spat, her gnarled hands gripping the arms of her seat. Daenerys turned to her, her face impassive.  
"My apologies."  
Jon could feel Cersei's rage from across the dragonpit, and his eyes met Enrin's, wide as saucers. Tyrion stood then, clearing his throat loud enough for all to hear. "It is common knowledge that everyone at this meeting has reason enough to despise one another," he said, "and we have also proven that we had never needed to meet each other to wage war-"  
Cersei cut across her brother with the ease of someone who had practiced. "Then why have you come, little brother?" she asked, her tone arrogant, "did you come to ask that we all raise our hands in surrender and learn to live harmoniously for the rest of our days?" She scoffed openly. Jaime shifted uncomfortably next to her, looking green.  
"It's not about that," Jon almost shouted, his frustration plain on his face, "there's no time for this. We don't have time for poetic words and pathetic digs." He stood, nodding silently to the Hound, who disappeared behind their chairs. He pushed the cargo crate into the middle of the meeting area, and Tyrion shied away from it. He returned to his seat next to Daenerys, who turned her body slightly away from the crate. It sat silent as Jon looked to Cersei again. "This is serious," he said, "I wouldn't be here if it weren't." Cersei cocked an eyebrow as they met eyes, two foes on the opposite sides of the world.  
"There is only one war. The Great War. And it is here."  
She laughed. Enrin bristled, her nails digging into the wooden arms of her chair. She wanted to launch herself at the hateful woman before her, who had the nerve to laugh in her husband's face. She wanted to break her bones and shove her into the crate with the monster they had brought back with them. Jon simply nodded to the Hound, who looked uneasy as he pulled the bolts from the crate. Enrin held her breath as they waited. After a moment, the Hound's frustration peaked, and he kicked the crate over with a violet _crash_.  
The wight sprang forth, its jaw's gnashing at the air. The chains around it's neck rattled as it scuttled across the floor, straight for Cersei. It's outstretched hands reached for her face as she flung herself back in her chair, her skin whiter than snow.  
The Hound jerked back on the chains, pulling the wight away, back into the middle of the floor. It rounded on him, and with one swipe of his longsword, he sliced it across the middle. The legs kicked violently as they lay on the ground, but the top half kept crawling, back toward Cersei, its rageful screams echoing into the sky. Jon reached down and with one sharp yank pulled an arm free of the body. "You can kill them with fire," he said, as Davos struck the torch in his hand. He set it to the hand as it clawed for his face. The wight screeched.  
His eyes found Enrin, who strode to meet him in the middle of the ampitheater. She reached into her boot and pulled forth a dagger of dragonglass, its handle hewn from rough wood. The glass gleamed wetly in the sun. "Or," Jon said, and he lifted the wight by it's ribs, "with dragonglass." He nodded to Enrin, who drove the dagger deep into the wight's chest, where rotted flesh still covered it. It wailed once more, before the blue light left it's eyes.  
Cersei's face was a disgusted grimace. She had pushed herself as far back as possible into her chair, and her brother next to her looked even more sick than he had before. "That," Jon announced as he dropped the wight's body to the ground, "is the fate of every living person in this world, if you don't help us stop them." Through all her fear, Cersei still managed to look incredulous. "Help you? Help _you_? You must have lost your mind," she leaned forward in her chair, her eyes burning, "You can go back to the North and deal with the dead yourself. We will deal with what is left of you."  
Daenerys spoke then, rising to stand with Jon and Enrin over the body of the wight. "I did not believe it at first," she said, standing shoulder to shoulder with her friends, "you have to see it to know. And I saw them all. _We_ saw them all."  
Jaime's mouth was agape, and he rose to stride away from his sister, who's eyes followed him. "How many?" he asked, toeing the head of the wight with his boot. "A hundred thousand, at least," Enrin said, and Jon realized that he had been gripping her hand like a vice as they spoke. He made to release it, to give her room to speak, but she only held him tighter. "We are not asking that you send your soldiers North," she said, meeting Cersei's steely gaze full on, "only that you pull back your armies and leave us be while we deal with this threat. Then, if you are so keen, we can go back to playing word games." Cersei laughed again, and Enrin wondered if her mirth was her only way of making people feel small around her. As she looked at this woman, she did not see the threat everyone else saw. Perhaps in her younger years. But here, now, Enrin saw an aging woman with fear behind her eyes and in the grit of her teeth when she spoke.  
"You are a fiery one, I'll give you that," Cersei said, and she folded her arms across her stomach, her thumbs toying with the fabric of her dress. Enrin's eyes narrowed as she watched her. "Alright, then, bastard," she said, and her eyes were haughty as she leaned her head back to glare at them all, "I'll give you my terms. I will halt my armies where they stand. I will give you your armistice, your _peace_ , while you set fire to the dead. And when you have finished, I will name you Stark and Warden of the North. In return, you will not take up arms against me or my house, and you will recognize me as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. These are my terms."  
Jon raised his eyebrows for a moment, and then he swallowed. "There is only one Queen of the North I recognize, and that is my wife," he said, and Enrin could not help but smirk. "And as for the remaining six kingdoms," Jon said, and his eyes flashed to Daenerys, who had the grace to look nervous, "Queen Daenerys and myself have already agreed upon our own terms. _She_ is the rightful Queen of the _Six_ Kingdoms, and the North shall be left alone. These are the terms we have already agreed to."  
Fire burned behind Cersei's eyes as she stood quickly, her dress billowing about her legs in a dramatic rush. "Then there is no further reason for us to play at this children's game you've brought here to me," she spat, and Enrin gripped the handle of the dragonglass dagger so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The Kingslayer moved to stand with her, his hand on his golden sword, but his eyes showed something different. Doubt shadowed his steps as he followed Cersei out of the dragonpit, her monstrous guard stomping behind her like a headless beast. Enrin released the breath she had been holding.  
Tyrion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That did not go as planned," Daenerys said, her hands on her hips as she turned to face her Hand. The man before her rubbed his temples. "No, I didn't think that it would," he said, and turned on his heel to follow his siblings. "Where are you going?" Daenerys shouted, but Tyrion did not turn. Enrin gripped her elbow as she made to follow him. "Leave him," she said, pulling Daenerys back to them, "let him speak with her. He knows her better than anyone here." Daenerys' eyes were troubled, but she nodded, and Enrin slipped her arm through hers. Now, all they had left to do was wait.

It had felt like hours before Tyrion returned, his siblings in tow. Jon had long pulled Enrin into his lap as they sat and simply waited. "Jon," she said, and he opened his eyes where they rested against her neck. She leaped up, pulling him with her.  
Cersei strode into the middle of the dragonpit, kicking aside the bones of the wight. Her face was set in a grimace.  
"I will not pull my armies back," she said, her hands folded in front of her, "I will march them North. We will handle this threat together. The dead is the true enemy, and our squabbles can wait." Jon and Daenerys exchanged glances, and only nodded. Tyrion strode over to stand with them, near Daenerys' right elbow. "My brother, Jaime, will lead the vanguard. My men will depart on the morrow, and march to Winterfell. Make no mistake," Cersei said, and her eyes burned again, "When the dead are defeated, the war is not over. More and more of your men will fall long after the Great War is over. Until then." She bustled her skirt as she turned again, striding from the dragonpit with her shoulders squared like she had won. Enrin rolled her eyes as they retreated. She gripped Jon's hand in hers as she rested her head on his shoulder. She suddenly felt very tired.  
"Can we go home now?" she asked, and he leaned his head on hers.  
"Aye, let's go home."


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi! I don't really have anything else to say...haha, enjoy! :)**

* * *

The frigid air bit at his face as he stood on the bow of the ship. The winds had been kind; they had made it to the North ahead of schedule, as if they knew how desperate he had been to be home. To take his wife home.  
She sat on the deck, with her legs crossed, as the pups raced about her. She had tied a knot of rope together and she watched them tug each other around the deck, her laughter echoing across the waters. The soldiers watched her fondly; she had won many a man's heart on this voyage, but none more than his.  
The air in the North agreed with them both. They had found themselves in higher and higher spirits the closer they got to home, their laughter coming easier and their smiles more broad. His muscles ached less now, the pain in his leg almost gone from him completely. Jon leaned out over the railing as he watched his wife play with her wolves, and a small smile tugged at his lips.  
She joined him eventually, after the cook had provided her with thick marrow bones for the wolves. She gave them one each and left them to their devices, the sound of their chewing the only other sound over the wind. Through the mist, White Harbor came into view, just as the afternoon had begun to turn to dusk.  
Enrin heaved a sigh of relief as the snowy white banks before them. Jon wrapped his arms around her waist, tucking his chin into the curve of her neck. He kissed her there, and she felt a tingling in her belly when his lips touched her. "When this is over," he said, "we're never leaving home again." She kissed his ear, resting her hands over his. "Promise me that," she whispered as the ship slid into the harbor.

She sat astride her gray mare again as the snow began to sprinkle from the sky. The air on Dragonstone seemed warm to her now as she sat shivering atop her charger as Jon wheeled his stallion before them. He charged up the snowy hills as the rest of them followed behind, driving their horses at a hard gallop, all eager to be home.  
Winterfell loomed before them, the candles dancing in the windows to welcome them. The wolfswood teemed with life as her people left their huts to line their path, and the doors to the castle were open and waiting for them as they rode their steeds through the gates. The people hailed them as they dismounted, and no sooner had her feet touched the icy ground before Jon had her hand in his, pulling her close to him. The wolves veered away from them, straight into the forest, no doubt to run and hunt and do the things that wolves did.  
The doors of the castle were flung open for them, the light from the torches spilling into the courtyard. As they entered, the guards bid them a warm welcome, bowing low as they strode over the threshold and into the warmth of the keep. The chandelier of the great hall had every candle lit, and the fire roared behind the high table, cracklling in the night. Sansa sat at Jon's throne, and she looked up as they entered, but she did not rise.  
"Brother, sister," she said as they entered, arm in arm, but her tone was cold and wary, housing none of the warmth it had when they had left her, "welcome." Enrin narrowed her eyes. Sansa's wolf, Winter, sat at her feet, a hulking gray shadow. Her ears perked forward, but she also stayed rooted to her spot. They stopped before the high table, and finally she stood. "I see you've kept Winterfell safe while we were away," Jon said, his tone suspicious as they rounded the table to take their seats. Sansa did not embrace him as he thought she might; instead, she only reached for his hand and squeezed it gently, saying nothing. Enrin caught Jon's gaze out of the corner of her eye. Something was amiss.  
"Where is Bran?" Jon asked as Dennas appeared before him, filling his cup with ale. Enrin refused her own, but she sipped cool water instead. Her stomach roiled at the energy in the room, and she thought she would rather have her wits about her than have them dulled by the spirits. On cue, Maester Wolken appeared, wheeling before him a frail looking boy with dark hair and a hooked nose, who's eyes looked older than any man's Enrin had ever seen. Jon stood immediately.  
"Hello, Jon," the boy said, his tone almost as devoid of emotion as Sansa's was. Jon strode forward and clasped the boy's hand in his. Jon's fingers seemed to swallow his brother's, he was so thin, like a stalk of grain ready to blow away in the wind. "Bran," he said, and his tone was full of awe and worry, "I thought you were dead. What happened to you? Where have you been?"  
Bran's eyes met Jon's, and there was something strange there, something robotic. It was almost as if he was trying to remember how he felt about Jon, his brother, whom he had not seen in years. "I have been everywhere, and nowhere," the boy said, only riddles falling from his lips as Jon pulled his wheeled chair closer to the table. Bran's eyes found Enrin's then, and she felt her back stiffen. "You," he said, and he reached for her hand. She took it in hers. "You must be Enrin," Bran continued, and his grip was weak in hers, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you." Enrin's eyes narrowed once more, as she tried to decipher the strange feeling the frail boy gave her. "Yes," she said, pulling her hand from his, "yes, a pleasure. I'm happy that I get to meet so many of Jon's siblings."  
"The ones that live, anyway," Bran said, and Jon could not hide the shock on his face. "What happened to you?" he asked, and Bran turned his steady gaze on to him, his eyes seeming far away. "Everything, and nothing," Bran riddled again, "I'm the Three Eyed Raven now."  
Jon turned to Sansa, who only shrugged. "I dont know what it means either," she said, sipping dark wine from a silver cup. She stood then, throwing her long hair over her shoulder. The firelight made it look even redder, like blood. "There is someone else I think you'd like to see, Jon," she said, and her tone sounded less strange, less cold. Jon's brows knit in confusion, but he followed her eyes to the door.  
The girl who stood before them was small in stature, almost as thin as Bran, but her thinness was not from frailty. Her body was lean and hard, her face more angular now than he had last seen her. Her hair was cropped short about her shoulders, and she wore leathers, like his, brown and blue in the colors of House Stark. A sword was belted at her waist, a small thing, and tears pricked his eyes to see it.  
"Arya."  
She stood with her hands folded behind her back, her face a calm mask, but as he said her name her features broke and light shone from behind her eyes, the light of recognition. She started to run.  
Arya vaulted over the table in front of them, flinging herself into Jon's arms, burying her face in his neck. He gripped her tightly, squeezing her to him, to hold her here, _here_. Home, in Winterfell, finally, where they all belonged.  
Jon thought that he could burst as he set her down on the floor in front of him, his hands touching her face gently, pulling her eyes to look into his. Both of his little sisters were here, they were home, healthy and alive and breathing here with him. "What happened to you? To _all_ of you?" His tone was hushed with wonder. Arya only shrugged and shook her head, her steely hard eyes softened a bit. "It doesn't matter," she said, and her hands gripped his forearms hard, "we're here, and we're going to fight whatever is coming for us. We're going to do it together." Her eyes cut to Sansa, who met her gaze, her chin inclined haughtily.  
"We'd like to hear what happened on Dragonstone," she said, returning to her seat as Dennas appeared to fill their plates with bread and cheese. Enrin would have liked something hot, but she was loathe to wake the cooks at this hour. Arya turned to her then, as if she had just remembered she was there. "Who is this?"  
Enrin opened her mouth to speak, but Jon got there first, chagrin coloring his tone. "Arya, this is Enrin, my...my wife."  
The girl's big brown eyes widened, and they looked Enrin up and down, so scrutinizing it was almost rude. Enrin sat very still; something told her that it would be death to be on Arya's bad side. "Where did you come from?" Arya asked, and her tone was not arrogant, only curious. "I don't think I've ever seen you before. What's your House name?"  
Enrin looked at Jon, who tried to look encouraging. He loved his siblings, he loved his wife, and he knew that it would be eaiser on all of them if Enrin and Arya got on as well as Enrin and Sansa had. "I don't have a House," Enrin said, sitting straighter. She suddenly wished she had accepted the wine. "I was born North of the Wall. In the True North."  
Arya's eyes lit with excitement. "Can you fight?"  
Enrin snorted. "I was fighting before I was walking."  
At that, Arya squinted. "I like that." She popped a piece of bread into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "But if you hurt my brother, I _will_ kill you."  
Jon's shoulders stiffened as he moved to stand between them, but Sansa gripped his forearm. Enrin raised her brows. "I would never dream of hurting your brother," she said, and she realized in that moment that she liked this little wild girl who reminded her of herself, "but if I ever did, I will come to you myself." They grinned at each other, and Arya took another piece of bread and tore it between her teeth. Jon all but sagged in relief.  
Jon told his siblings the story of their time on Dragonstone, about Daenerys and her dragons and their meeting at the dragonpit. Sansa spit when she heard that Lannister soldiers were marching here to Winterfell, and Arya commented that most of them would die of the frost sickness before they made it. Jon only shrugged. "I won't turn down soldiers," he said, "not when I know what is coming for all of us." His siblings had nothing else to say after that, only nodding, their eyes grave. Enrin's eyes were on Sansa through the whole meeting, watching as she gazed at Jon with some sort of contempt. Soldiers marched to and fro; men of Winterfell, free-folk, and the little pointed man Enrin had not liked. He lurked closer than all of them.  
"Jon," Enrin said suddenly, cutting over him in the middle of his sentence, "do you think your brother and sister might like to meet the rest of the pack?" Her stomach roiled with unease, and his eyes were confused as they found hers. He nodded, standing. Sansa remained seated, Winter dozing at her feet. "I think Winter would like to see her brothers and sisters again after so long away," Enrin said pointedly, and Sansa looked bored before she finally stood.  
They made their wait slowly into the wolfswood, and Enrin whistled once. Ghost came first, circling around Arya and Bran like a worried mother, sniffing their ears. Night and the pups appeared next, black and gray fur mingling together as they strode from the trees. Arya could barely contain her awe.  
When they were well into the wood, Enrin's eyes met Night's, who slunk off into the trees. Enrin could hear her prowling their perimiter, searching for prying ears and eyes. She took Sansa by the elbow and turned her almost roughly to face her. "What is the matter with you?" she said, and Jon said her name in a chastise. When Sansa looked at her, her eyes were afraid.  
"I know you told me to stay away from Lord Baelish," Sansa said suddenly, her words falling from her mouth in a hurried whisper. Night prowled around them again, her ears perked and listening. "He's been... _talking_ to me," she said, and Jon stepped forward with his hand on his sword. "Bran told me. If it weren't for Bran, I would have believed Lord Baelish, I would have, but Bran told me everything. Jon," Sansa turned to him then, and tears pricked her eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm so happy you're home, but Lord Baelish cannot know. He thinks he's winning, and he has to think he's winning, you see, he has to." Jon pulled Sansa close to him, tucking her under his arm. "Calm down," he said, his words a gentle whisper, "Take me to Lord Baelish and I'll have him answer for whatever he's done." Sansa only shook her head. "You _can't_ ," she said, and her tone was pleading, "Jon, you can't. The Knights of the Vale are loyal to him, only to him, and we need them if we are going to have a chance in the wars to come." Enrin ran her fingers through one of the pup's fur as they passed her, shadowing their mother's footsteps as she rounded them agian. They spread out through the trees, like woodland spirits, teeth ready to sink into any man who should not be there. "But are they?" she said, and Jon looked at her questioningly. "Are they loyal to Lord Baelish? Or do they only follow him because of his ties to you? Sansa," Enrin reached for her sister's hand, who took it in both of hers. Sansa's grip was hard and fast, pouring her fear into Enrin's fingers, "Ser Royce is loyal to _you_. A blind man could see his hatred for this Lord Baelish a league away. We do not have time for his games. He has betrayed you, he has betrayed the North, and he must answer for his crimes." Enrin saw the hurt in Sansa's eyes, as she relived all this man had done to her. Anger flamed in Enrin's chest. She turned to Jon, hand outstretched. "Give me Longclaw," she said, "and I will do it myself."  
Jon put his hand on the hilt of his sword, turning away as Enrin reached for it. Sansa's eyes were wet and wary, and she only shook her head. Arya scoffed. "You don't have the heart for it," she said, squaring her shoulders so she stood straight, "I do. I'll do it. Just say the words." It was Bran who spoke next, his voice and eyes far away. "It is not time," he said, and then he turned his head to face them all, "Soon, sister, soon. But not yet. Sheath your blade."  
Jon had a sour taste in his mouth, but he nodded. Whatever Bran had seen, it had made him wise. "By your leave, Sansa," Jon agreed, "and only then."  
They left the wolfswood together, Jon pushing Bran in his wheeled chair. Enrin walked between Arya and Sansa, as Arya regaled her of stories from their childhood. Jon looked back at them, indulgently, and his happiness glowed through his eyes like the light of the morning. The wolves had stalked off, back into the woods, and Arya asked if she could see them again on the morrow. Jon's heart ached. Nymeria had been lost to Arya, so many years ago. He did not know what happened to her, only that she was not with Arya, and the thought of it made him sad.  
"Of course," Enrin said, and she touched Arya lightly on the shoulder, "one of them may even take a liking to you, like Winter has to Sansa. They may choose to follow your footsteps, like Night follows mine." Arya smiled at that, a real true smile, and bid them goodnight as they entered the castle again. Sansa disappeared into her chambers as well, and Enrin's worried eyes followed her as she walked. She did not like this Lord Baelish, and she didn't want him anywhere near her sister.  
They wheeled Bran to his chambers, together, but he refused them when Jon asked if he needed help. "I'm alright, thank you," Bran said as he wheeled himself over the threshold. He turned to Jon again, suddenly, as if a passing thought had made him remember something important. "Come talk with me tomorrow, Jon, when you please. We have much to discuss."  
Jon's brows knit together, but he nodded, and bid his brother goodnight.  
Jon and Enrin wandered back to their chambers, arm in arm, nodding to guards and servants as they passed them. They were glad to see them home, almost as glad as Jon was. Whatever faced them, to the north, to the south, he felt they could face it here. He felt stronger within the walls of Winterfell, his steps more languid and his shoulders more relaxed. He felt the ghosts of his ancestors here, of his father, his brothers, everyone that he had loved and lost. He felt them here, a part of him, and as they opened the doors to their chambers, he smiled.  
"What?" Enrin asked as they entered, pouring them cups of wine from the pitcher on the table. The fire had been lit and it burned angrily, the flames casting monstrous shadows on the walls. He walked to her and wound his arms around her waist as she faced away from him, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. It smelled of the winter wind and the rose oil she had dripped into their bath the previous night. He pulled her flush against him, his hands splayed across her belly. "I'm glad to be home, with you," he said simply, trailing his lips down her shoulder, pulling aside the sleeve of her shirt to reach more of her skin. Enrin leaned her head back into him, pressing her lips to his cheek. He turned her then, shrugging off his cloak onto the floor. His hands found her waist as he untucked her shirt from her pants, pulling it over her head in one swift movement. She grinned wryly at him, undoing the belt from his hips and pulling his jerkin over his head. "You're in a good mood," she said, her lips finding his throat. He wound his hand in the end of her hair and pulled her head back, the strands tugging at her scalp. He turned her face to his and found her lips, claiming them, pouring everything he had into their kiss. She pushed away from him suddenly, raising an eyebrow. She backed away, a challenge in her eyes. "You've got to work for it, _Your Grace,_ " she said, and Jon smirked. "As you say, _My Queen,_ " he replied, falling into a hunter's crouch as she continued to back away from him, and suddenly she turned, racing across their chambers, and he gave chase. She jumped onto the bed and he followed, their laughter echoing across the stones. She feignted left as he reached for her, his fingers skimming the skin of her naked back. She rounded the desk, gripping it with both her hands, her laughter breathless. His hair had fallen loose and tumbled about his face in a thick mane of ebony curls, and she thought he had never looked more beautiful as he stood before her, shirtless, grinning, his cheeks red with mirth. His eyes seemed younger as they watched her hungrily.  
Suddenly he was moving, vaulting over the table at her, and she was so distracted by looking at him that she moved a moment too late. She yelped as his arm snaked around her waist and he thre her over his shoulder, swatting at her rear. "I'm still faster than you," he said as he dropped her onto the bed, pulling her legs free of her pants as her hands fumbled with the ties of his own. His hands found her, ready and waiting, and she sighed as he slid two fingers into her. He worked them deeper into her, again and again as she writhed beneath him, the skin of her chest flushed as she pulled his lips down to meet hers. He felt her quickening around his fingers and suddenly he was in her, swiftly, their hips fitting together like they were always meant to. She clutched him to her as she found her release, and he moved with her, his arm supporting her back off the bed. "Do you know how much I love you?" he whispered as they moved together, but she could only mumble his name incoherently as they both found their release again, falling into the bed of furs, his hands still wrapped in her hair.

Enrin ran her fingers over the scars on his stomach, the fire crackling at the edge of the room The candles had long burned away, and the embers gave the room a dusky glow, like a new dawn. Jon yawned beneath her, and he opened his eyes slowly to find her watching him. "You're doing it again," he said, a smile playing on his lips, "staring instead of sleeping."  
Enrin shrugged, tucking her head into his chest once more. "Just memorizing your face," she replied, but she closed her eyes anyway. She felt him heave a sigh beneath her. "I want it to always be like this," he said, and his words were filled with melancholy, "I just want to _be_ here. With you. With my sisters and my brother. I just want to live." Enrin gripped him tighter, but left her eyes screwed shut. She knew how his face looked now, how his lips and the corners of his eyes would droop in sadness, and she knew that she could not bear to see it. "It will be," she said, her words a promise, because she knew that she would give anything to give him this. A life without fighting. All he had done is fight. "It will be," she said again, and this time she did look up at him. "When we defeat the Night King, and that blonde bitch in the South, we'll come back home, and it will be as you say." Jon looked down at her, but he did not look convinced. There was fear behind his eyes, hidden by his doubt, but she could see it plainer than the light of day. She could not blame him; she was afraid too, of what faced them, of how it would end. He managed a half smile, and she knew it was only for her benefit. He kissed her again, long and slow, and they lay together well into the light of morning, both pretending to sleep.

* * *

Jon had left her early that morning, his eyes tinged with red from their sleepless night. He had to wait for Davos to return, he said, and breif the other Northern lords on what had happened on Dragonstone. They needed to begin drafting their plans for battle, and so he had gone, leaving her in bed. He had hated to do it, but they were home now, and Kings and Queens had to do what Kings and Queens must.  
Enrin dressed quickly, pulling her roughspun white dress over her head. She wore black fur lined leggings beneath it, as she usually did, and laced her boots high up to her knee. She strode to the door and pulled it open, and a man stood before her, his eyes shrewd. His beard was a pointed as his chin and cheekbones, his nose long and severe, but Enrin knew him immediately. Disgust twisted in her gut.  
"Lord Baelish," she said, and her tone was as cool as an autumn morning. The pointed man bowed low, his rich black overcoat sweeping the floor. "My Queen," he said, and offered his arm, "I've come to escort you to the great hall. Your husband awaits."  
Enrin took his arm, but her fingers hovered over his elbow. He reached over and closed her hand, patting her fingers firmly with his. She wanted to recoil, even to slap him, but she refrained. She grit her teeth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked, and she tried to keep her voice light, but suspicion colored her words. "I haven't yet gotten to know you, Your Grace," Littlefinger said as they started down the hall, his steps slow and precise. "I've spent a great deal of time with your new sister-by-law while you were away, and she told me a great deal about you." Enrin cocked a brow. "Did she?"  
Littlefinger smiled, his secrets hidden by his teeth. "Nothing of the negative variety," he said, and his tone sounded as if he wished the opposite. "Tell me, how are you enjoying your new husband?"  
Enrin bristled. "We enjoy each other rather well," she replied. Littlefinger smiled at her then, and her eyes were level with his. He was a small man, truly, and Enrin couldn't place the threat she felt. She could easily shout for the guards, or even overpower him herself. She was suddenly very aware of the sharp dagger she had strapped to her thigh, hidden by the folds of her dress. All she had to do was reach for it, and he wouldn't have the time to scream. "I'm glad to hear it," Littlefinger said, but his grin said otherwise. There was always a secret meaning to his words, something only he knew, and it made her skin prickle. "Is it safe to assume that there will soon be a little prince or princess of the North on the way to join us in the Great Wars to come? If you are enjoying each other so well."  
Enrin's eyes flickered to him, and when she spoke, her tone was sharp. "My heirs are none of your business," she spat, her words like ice, but Littlefinger only smiled sweetly next to her, poison behind his eyes. " _Your_ heirs?" he asked, and she felt as if he were laughing at her, "My Queen, they are the King's heirs, after all," he continued, "his son will rule after him, and his son after that, and so on and on for the rest of time." His words cut Enrin to the quick, and anger burned in her throat like bile. "His sons are my sons," she nearly growled. The great hall came into view then, and she saw Jon, who poured over maps with Robett Glover and Yohn Royce at his side. He looked up as they entered, and his lip twitched with fury at the sight of her arm through Littlefinger's. The pointed man smiled next to her, releasing her, and bowing low again. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, but his eyes flitted down to her stomach, and he tutted in disappointment, "if you say so." He took his leave then, disappearing into a crowd of soldiers as they milled about the doors. Jon strode over to her, his hand on his sword. "What the hell did he want?" he spat, taking Enrin's hand in his and pulling her with him over to the map table. Lords Glover and Royce bowed as she neared. Her eyes followed Littlefinger as he wove through the crowd of soldiers, melting into the shadows again. Her brows knit together. What had he meant?  
She shook her head. "I'm not sure," she told Jon, and accepted a cup of hot wine from Cedrick as he appeared at her elbow. She sipped slowly, but her stomach was in a roil. She cleared her throat, leaning over the map table so that she could see what they were looking at. Their forces were garrisoned around Winterfell. She heard the sharp sounds of steel against steel outside, and knew that the soldiers had already begun training. "Bran told me that he last saw the Night King and his army here," Jon ran his finger over a crudely drawn area of forest, North of the Wall. It was closer to Eastwatch than Enrin would have liked. She gulped her wine again, wishing it would make her brave. She nodded for him to continue as she handed her cup to Cedrick for another draft. "I have little hope that the Wall will hold," he said, "and I have called the Night's Watch here, to Winterfell. Your father and the rest of Eastwatch will depart today. Edd and Castle Black will depart on the morrow." Enrin all but sagged with relief at the word that her father would come home, but her scalp prickled at his words. "You think the Wall is going to come down," she said, and it was not a question. When he looked at her, Jon's eyes were grave. "It _is_ my hope, of course, that the Wall will keep us safe as it has for eight thousand years," he said, but he shrugged, "if it does not, we must be ready. The Night King and his army will be there within the fortnight. Daenerys' army marches on the King's Road, and should be here by the nightfall. She flies slowly to protect their back, but I have little fear anyone in the North would come to contest them." His eyes flashed to the lords next to him, who balked. "Your Grace," Yohn Royce said, bowing slightly, "The men of the North are yours." Jon thanked him, and turned back to his wife. "I have a job for you, if you'd do me the honor," he said, and nodded to his lords as he offered his arm to his wife. They bowed, and turned to pour over the maps again, bickering about this and that. Enrin took his arm and allowed him to escort her into the courtyard.  
It was alive with commotion as they entered, and Jon pulled off his cloak and placed it over her shoulders. Boys of all ages clashed with practice swords in the yard; the youngest was a little boy of the free-folk, his hair the color of wet sand. His eyes were large and frightened, covering his ears from the noise. He could not have been more than six.  
Enrin released Jon and strode to him. She put her hands gently over his where they covered his ears, and he jumped to feel her there, whipping around to face her. "Hello, little thing," she said, and her voice was more gentle than Jon had ever heard it. "Are you afraid?"  
The boy watched her for a moment, his big brown eyes flickering to the practicing boys, then back to her. He shook his head, puffing out his chest. "The free-folk aren't afraid," he said, and his voice was higher than the tinny of a bell. Enrin smiled. "There is no shame in fear," she said, and she held her hand out for him to take. He did, adjusting the leather jerkin that covered his furs. It was several sizes too large. "You see," Enrin said, and she led him over to Jon, who stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, "when a man is afraid, that is the only time he can be brave. Isn't that right?" She looked to Jon then, who smiled down at the frightened boy, and he nodded. "The Queen is right," Jon said, and he crouched down to be of level with him, "what's your name?" The boy fidgeted under his gaze, but answered anyway, his voice strong. "Stygir, Y-Your Grace," he stammered, but he held Jon's eyes steadily. "A strong name," Jon said, and the boy stood taller. "It was my father's name," Stygir said, and his words were filled with pride. "And what of your father now?" Enrin asked, and the boy's fingers tightened in hers. "The Others took him at Hardhome, Your Grace," he replied, and my brother, Garluf. He was older than me, you see, so he stayed behind to fight with father while mother and I boarded the ship. He said he would come, but he never did." Stygir's small brown eyes found the ground then, and Enrin held his hand in both of hers, heartache slicing through her chest. "I can fight, though, Your Graces, I can," Stygir said, and his voice was earnest, "my mother works in your kitchens now, and she's been teaching me at night with the sword, but it's never so loud as this." Jon stood, and offered his hand to the boy as well, and Stygir took it eagerly. His eyes met Enrin's, and he was touched by the sadness there. "Would you like to try something a little quieter?" She asked, as they started over to where the targets stood perched into the ground. A few clumsy boys stood there, aiming arrows half heartedly at the bullseyes. Stygir nodded eagerly.  
"You're in luck, it seems," Jon said, "I would ask the Queen if she would help teach the young ones archery. She's the best shot I've ever seen." Stygir's eyes found Enrin's, and they were big and bright. "Truly?"  
Enrin cocked her eyebrow and reached for a bow. Jon took a rough wooden one from the weapon rack, handing it to her. She felt the weight of it; it was clumsier and heavier than the ones she was used to, but it would do. She knocked an arrow and closed her eyes.  
The arrow sang through the air, landing with a dull thud in the middle of the target.  
Stygir clapped, his eyes bright and wild. "Again! Do it again!" He shouted, and the other boys came to watch the clamor as well, as Enrin shot arrow after arrow into the bullseyes. When she had hit every target, she turned back to Jon, breathless. He watched her with a soft smile on his lips, pride shining through his eyes. She handed the bow to one of the larger boys, a lad of fifteen with mouse brown hair and eyes to match. "Go on," she said, and showed him how to place his hands, "it's your turn now."

They trained well into the late afternoon, until each boy had hit the bullseye at least once. Stygir pouted when she sent them in for supper, and she placed a soft hand on his head and promised they would work again on the morrow. Her hands were rough with calluses as she wandered into the play yard again, following the sounds of practice swords and shouting.  
Jon had worked the young boys tirelessly, and sweat beaded on his brow as he twisted away from what would have been a killing blow, if the sword the boy wielded had an edge, and if he were skilled enough to land it.  
"Good!" Jon shouted, but he twisted away again as the young one before him raised the sword above his head to bring it down again. He rolled, tossing his shield. He parried the boy, who grunted as Jon's practice sword found its way to his throat. They broke apart, laughing. He clapped the boy on the shoulder and turned, finding Enrin there watching him.  
"We'll meet back here tomorrow," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. They bowed as he walked away, turning to mutter excitedly between themselves. They were boys of Winterfell who had just been personally trained by their king. Enrin knew that this would shape their future; she thought that they would receive knighthoods. If any of them made it through the war, she would see to it herself.  
Jon reached for her hand and she met him, twining her fingers in his. "You're good with them," she said as they started back toward the keep, and Jon's grin was almost shy. "I trained the young boys at Castle Black," he answered, shrugging it off. "You're going to make a wonderful father, one day," she said, but her gut twisted as she remembered Littlefinger's strange words from the morning. Jon sensed her unease, and squeezed her hand tighter. "What is it?"  
She swallowed a lump in her throat, shaking her head. "Nothing," she replied, averting her eyes, "I'm just hungry. Come."

Enrin set down her fork, taking another long draught of wine. Jon eyed her plate suspiciously, but said nothing. She had left almost all of her food there, and tossed it around to make it seem like she had eaten. She would fight with him if he mentioned it, he knew; she had been oddly defensive through their supper, her eyes casting warily about the room. He felt her discomfort like a weight on his shoulders, and he reached under the table to squeeze her hand. When she looked up at him, his eyes were concerned.  
What Littlefinger had said to her sat on her heart, gripping it like a vice. Surely, if she were able to give him an heir, it would be growing in her belly as they spoke. She wondered if it was, but her blood had just been upon her, and remembering it dashed her hopes. His reign was in danger until she produced an heir for him, she knew that. She also thought of him today, with Stygir, how he had been so sweet with the little boy he had just met. Yes, she thought, she wanted to make him a father to see him raise her sons and daughters, to share that with him. Enrin looked down at her flat stomach, wondering why it betrayed her.

Davos entered the great hall then, and Jon rose to meet him. They clasped forearms, both looking relieved. Enrin's melancholy was momentarily forgotten. She heard the roar from outside, the screams of the terrified people, and knew the dragons must have landed. She stood and raced from the great hall, Jon hot on her heels.  
The guards outside raised their swords as Drogon hissed, and she saw the fire glowing low in his throat. Daenerys sat astride him, and she had a placating hand on his great neck, but the dragon was having none of it. Enrin put herself in front of the guards, between Drogon and them, glowering. "Put away your blades," she said, and they looked at her doubtfully. "Queen Daenerys is here to assist us, not kill us, you know this. We've told you. I said put away your blades!" They did then, sheathing them at once, bowing their heads as they backed away. Daenerys walked down Drogon's wing and Enrin reached up to help her, linking her arm through hers. "Welcome to Winterfell, Daenerys," she said, as Drogon took to the air, sending her hair whipping about her face. "You look troubled," Daenerys said, squeezing her friend's arm. Enrin felt her cheeks redden; she wondered what her face must look like.  
Jon met them at the doors of the keep, waving them in. He welcomed Daenerys, leading them back into the great hall, where the lords of the North stood waiting to greet them. They looked at Daenerys with distrust plain on their faces, but she held her head high as she strode past them, up to the long table, where Sansa and Arya sat waiting with Bran. She greeted them both in turn, and Jon pulled her to the map table, where they stood with their heads bent low together, whispering the battle plans. Davos stood with them, but Enrin remained with Jon's siblings.  
She felt a presence at her shoulder and turned. Littlefinger stood before her, his pointed lips beneath his pointed beard pulled up into a grin. "They seem to be quite close," he said, his words a whisper to only her. She turned her head to face him, but she saw Sansa instead, standing behind Littlefinger with loathing in her eyes. She knew he was planting seeds in her, she knew that he was seeking to cause strife, to weaken their ties and, in turn, weaken the North. But even still, his words stung her.  
"You must be tired after your journey," she heard Jon say, and realized that they had made their way back to her. Daenerys nodded. "My soldiers will set up their camp outside the walls," she said, "and I would be happy for a bath and a hot meal."  
"We shall have some sent to your chambers," Enrin said, and she tried to sound friendly, but only succeeded in sounding tired, "Cedrick will show you to them. Please seek us out if there is anything you should need." She sounded too formal, too unfamiliar, and Daenerys' brows knit together. She nodded, and turned to leave, and Enrin saw Jorah waiting for her there at the doors of the great hall. Enrin swallowed thickly. "I think I will retire as well," she said, and she strode from the hall as Littlefinger leaned in to whisper into Sansa's ear.

Jon threw open the doors to their chambers and Enrin shoved her head farther into the pillows of their bed. "What is it?" he demanded as he slammed the doors behind him, pulling the blankets roughly away from her. She gripped the pillow tightly, pulling it over her head. "Its nothing," she said, her voice muffled by the fabric, "it is stupid and I know that it is stupid, but it bothers me yet still."  
Jon sat on the edge of the mattress, and he ran his fingers up her back. She shied away from his touch, and he sighed. "Tell me."  
She looked up at him then, and her eyes were filled with sadness. "If I couldn't give you heirs," she said, "if I couldn't give you sons. Would you leave me?"  
Jon's eyes widened a fraction, and and then he squinted. "What did that shit say to you this morning?" he demanded, standing to pace the room, his hand on his sword. Enrin only shrugged, saying nothing. Jon swore.  
"Of course I woudln't leave you," he said finally, after a long bought of cursing. He sat on the bed again, and pulled her over to him, putting her head in his lap. He stroked her hair, his fingers lighter than a feather. "You silly woman," he sighed, "there are other ways to choose a successor. One of us, realistically, I'm sure, will die first. I name you as my heir. And after, you will name Sansa."  
Enrin closed her eyes, the feel of his fingers in her hair calming her nerves. "I don't want to talk about us dying," she said, and she felt him chuckle beneath her. "You worry too much," Jon said, and she opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her, "you do. You try to hide it, but I can always see it on your face." He leaned down to kiss her, slow and gentle. "It hasn't been too long," he said, as he ran his fingers through her hair again, "it's been no time at all, really. I hope we don't have a child before the wars are over." His voice was sad as he spoke, and she touched his hand where it cupped her face. "I don't want them to grow up like this. I want them to be happy." She nodded, kissing his palm. "It was only Littlefinger's words," she said, her voice quiet, "nothing more. Sooner or later, whichever comes first." He kissed her again, and her heart felt lighter than it had all day.  
The knock on their door startled them both, and they jumped from the bed like frightened animals. Jon opened the door a crack, big enough for his head to fit through. Sansa stood before them, her face a calm mask. "I'd like for you both to come to the great hall, if it please you," she said, and turned quickly on her heel. Jon and Enrin exchanged glances. That was Littlefinger's Sansa, they knew, not theirs. They quickly followed her down the hall.

The torches burned with low light, only half of them lit. Sansa sat in her seat at the high table, with Bran seated to her left. Jon and Enrin came to sit beside her, both of them looking confused. Yohn Royce stood among the Knights of the Vale, his cloak tucked into his great breastplate. The doors opened, and Arya strode forward, her face impassive. She stood before the table, her hands folded behind her back. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked, her eyes on Sansa, who sat back in her chair. "It is not what I want, but it is what honor demands," Sansa replied, and then she stood.  
"You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you answer for these crimes...Lord Baelish?"  
Jon moved to stand, but Enrin gripped his elbow hard, pulling him back down into his seat. "This is not for you," she whispered desperately in his ear, and she could hear his teeth grind together, "by her leave."  
Littlefinger stood for a moment, shock plain on his face. Arya turned to him, a small smile playing on her lips. "My sister asked you a question."  
"Lady Sansa, forgive me, I'm a bit confused." Littlefinger strode to stand in front of the table.  
"Which charges confuse you?" Sansa asked, and she looked more regal than she ever had before. "Lady Sansa, if we could only speak alone," Littlefinger said, and his voice had a nervous edge. "You stand accused of murder," Sansa said, ignoring his request, "you killed our aunt Lysa. You threw her through the moon door. Do you deny it?"  
"I did that to protect you." Littlefinger gripped the table in front of them, but released it as Jon almost lunged forward. He backed away, into Arya, who only watched him as he shied away. "You stand accused of treason," Sansa said again, her voice strong, "you betrayed our father and got him imprisoned in the black cells of King's Landing. In doing that, you had a hand in his murder at the hands of the false king Joffrey. Do you deny it?"  
Littlefinger smiled then, but his teeth were on edge and his jaw too square. "None of you were there!" he shouted, and his words were a desperate plea. "None of you know what truly happened. I deny it!"  
"You held a knife to his throat," Bran said, and Jon thought he may implode with anger as it coursed through is veins like black water, "you told him, _'I did tell you not to trust me'._ Do you deny it?"  
Littlefinger whipped around, striding to Yohn Royce, who looked on him coolly. "I am the Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to see me safely back to the Eyrie," Littlefinger demanded, and Yohn Royce only smiled. "I think not," the man said, and the Knights of the Vale all stood fast with him, none of them moving.  
Littlefinger turned, and fell to his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes, hot and wet. Enrin sneered in disgust. "Sansa, please," Littlefinger begged, his hands cupped in front of him, "I loved your mother."  
"And yet, you betrayed her." Sansa's voice was no longer brittle; it was strong, like the set of her shoulders, and she leaned across the table to stare into Littlefinger's eyes.  
"I loved you," Littlefinger cried, "more than anyone."  
"And yet you betrayed me."  
Arya moved then, and Enrin gripped Jon's arm so hard she thought she may break his skin. He held her fast, his hand squeezing her knee. "Look away," he said, but she only shook her head.  
"Sansa-"  
The knife made no noise as it sliced through the skin of his throat like butter, and he choked. Blood shot from his mouth as he coughed once, twice, and suddenly his throat opened. Blood sprayed from between his fingers, soaking the front of his doublet. He sputtered and wheezed, slumping, until he fell forward onto the floor, his life's blood spreading around him like a great red blanket. Sansa stood then, and strode from the room, Arya pushing Bran's chair behind her.  
Jon and Enrin were the last two to leave, as the Knight's of the Vale lifted Littlefinger's body by his arms and dragged him from the hall. His blood made a macabre painting behind him, like the wet trail of a snail. His glassy eyes stared at Enrin as they passed her, and suddenly, she had never felt safer.


	16. Chapter 16

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

The morning light filtered through their window and spilled over her face. Jon stared down at her as it did; her head was on his chest and her arms were wrapped around one of the pillows, and she was all but swimming in her hair as it lay around her like a thick black cloak. He had woken an hour before dawn. The sounds of steel against steel already rang out from the practice yard, but he had stayed abed. He couldn't bring himself to wake her, and the only time he really got to look at her was when she was sleeping, the only time she was actually still.

Her face was unlined and unmarred, save the sliver of a pink scar that showed beneath her hairline. She had a small birthmark on the side of her neck that was almost perfectly round, and he gently ran his fingertip over it. She stirred, but didn't wake, sighing in her sleep. She had the same high cheekbones of her father, but her nose was less severe; hers turned up at the end where his hooked downward. He wondered if she looked like her mother. She had a smattering of freckles over her shoulders, that he had never noticed before. Some were darker than others, dotting along her arms like an unconnected puzzle, but the rest of her skin was pale as milk and smooth to the touch. He ran his fingers down her side gently, and she woke then, her eyes blinking open. She stretched, her muscles sore from their previous day's training. Jon pushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I need to cut this a bit," she said, huffing as a strand fluttered over her face. Jon leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Never. Don't you dare."  
She sat up to face him, pressing her lips to his, and then she lay down again, throwing her arm across his chest. "Come on, you," he said, and made to move from the bed, but she held him fast. "Can't we just stay here?" she asked, and her voice was so melancholy that Jon almost agreed. Eventually she released him, sitting up and reaching for her gray dress that she had thrown at the bottom of the bed the night before. "Fine," she muttered, "but I want those cinnamon cakes for breakfast if you're forcing me to leave this bed."  
Jon could only laugh. "As you wish, My Queen."

* * *

Enrin popped the last ofher cinnamon cake into her mouth, chewing eagerly. She felt Jon's eyes on her and when she turned, he was grinning. "That's the first whole meal I've seen you eat in weeks," he remarked, and she shrugged. "You keep trying to feed me salted pork and venison, gods, I can't look at another piece of deer meat." She poked a finger down her throat, pretending to gag. Jon laughed then, a wholehearted sound that echoed across the hall. The torches burned bright on the cloudy morning, and the fire crackled hotly behind them.

Instinctually, Enrin's eyes fell to the floor, where just the night before Littlefinger had knelt, begging for his life. The blood had been washed clean from the stone, and yet she felt that she could still taste the sickly scent of death in the back of her throat. The thought of it made her stomach turn, and she thought her breakfast might be brought back up for all to see. She swallowed thickly and stood, pressing her fingers to her throat to quell her nausea. "I should see to the young ones at the archery station," she said, and she touched Jon's face gently before she all but ran from the hall. He watched her, confused, but as he made to follow he was set upon by Robbett Glover, who wanted to know exactly his place in the vanguard when they moved out for battle. Jon had not thought of it much. The army they faced was not one they had to impress; the dead did not care how strong their forces were, they did not care who stood with Jon as he sat astride his horse trying to look regal. Jon gave him a place of honor, if only to get the Lord to go away and leave him be.

He entered the practice yard, pulling his thick gloves over his hands. He wondered if he actually needed them; his fingers were rough and calloused from his years of swordplay, and he wondered if the gloves actually protected his hands at all.  
He stood for a moment and watched Enrin with the younglings. She reached down gently to steady a small girl who shook as she raised the bow. She spoke quietly to her, and ran a hand to smooth back the girl's wild red hair. The girl nodded and raised her bow again, stronger this time, and released the arrow. It landed slightly to the left of the bullseye, but it stuck fast, quivering. The small girl jumped up and down, a laugh bubbling from her lips as Enrin picked her up and swung her in a circle, her own laughter echoing across the field. She caught Jon's eye then as he stood watching her, a serene smile on his lips. They gazed at each other for a moment, and their smiles turned sad, when suddenly a commotion from the front gates caught their attention. Enrin sat the small girl back down onto the ground and all but ran to Jon, who took her hand and led her at a brisk walk to the gates.

"Aye! Alright! I get it!"

The guards were milled around, talking in hushed tones, their weapons sheathed. Jon shouldered through them, Enrin close on his heels. Arya sat astride a prone figure, whos hands covered his face as she rained her fists down upon any part of him she could reach. "Arya!" Jon shouted and she turned to face him, her teeth gritted. The man removed his hands from his face and they realized it was Gendry, his hair slightly longer now that it had gone without a shear. Blood trickled from his lip where Arya had split it.  
"What in the seven hells are you doing?!" Jon shouted again, gripping Arya under her arms and hauling her off of Gendry, who scrambled from the ground. Enrin reached out to brush the dirt from Gendry's roughspun cloak, and he waved her off gently. "Aye, Your Grace, don't fuss," he said, and he turned to Arya, who struggled in Jon's vicelike grip. "I believe I deserved it," he said, and a grin played on his lips. Blood dripped down his chin.  
Arya stopped struggling and Jon released her, and he stood back and let them face off. "I didn't think I'd see you again," Arya spat, and then turned to Jon who almost recoiled. "You didn't tell me he was coming here," she accused, and Jon looked to Enrin for guidance but she only raised her hands in defeat and backed away a pace.  
"Well I didn't know you knew him," Jon said, and his tone was incredulous, "what, am I supposed to just know everyone you've ever met?" Arya's eyes burned, but she quickly turned on her heel and stalked away, back toward the stables. Jon looked to Gendry, who had the grace to look abashed. "She'll forgive us both in time, Your Grace," Gendry said, running a hand through his spikey hair. Jon looked from him, to Enrin, and then back to Gendry, sputtering. "I'll head to the forge, if it please you," he said after he laughed, "We've brought the dragonglass. I'd sooner begin to forge weapons from it than be bested by a little girl in front of all these men...again." There were six Dothraki screamers with him, all who looked on him now with mirth plain on their faces. They had thick packs strapped to them, and the dragonglass spilled overtop them, and the guards around them eyed it curiously. Jon stood aside to let them pass, and he clapped Gendry on the back as he did. "I won't be pulling her off you next time."  
At that, Gendry only laughed. "Aye," he agreed, "I wouldn't expect you to."  
They moved off, toward the forge, at the opposite end of the yard. The smoke rose thickly from the fires.

"Come," Jon said, and he placed a hand on Enrin's back and led her back into the yard, "I'd like to see something."  
They walked silently, their arms wrapped around each other's waists, the clanging of steel and the laughter of the young one's making a loud clamor that brought smiles to them again. They came upon boys sparring in the open pit, and their form was messy but strong as they pushed eachother back and forth, their wooden practice swords clanging together again and again. They stopped as Jon and Enrin came through, and began to bow, but Jon waved them up. "I'd like to see what you can do," Jon said, and when she looked confused, he unsheathed a steel sword from the weapon rack and offered it to Enrin. It was light and thin, something she could easily lift. She fingered the edge with her thumb; it was blunted, just enough of an edge to leave a bruise, but nothing more.

She heard him swing before she saw him raise his arm, and he was so quick that he almost landed it, but she brought the hilt of her sword up in a flash to block him. The blunt metal bit at her finger and she winced, but held fast, pushing against him with both hands on the pommel of the practice sword.  
"Good," Jon said, and his voice was warm, and she strangely felt desire unfold in her belly as he watched her, his eyes hungry. She pushed him, ducking under his arms to whirl away again. She planted her feet and her sword was raised. "I'd like to see what _you_ can do," she said, and her words were a challenge. Jon spun, his feet lighter than air on the ground, and his sword rained down on her again and again, but she met him stroke for stroke, her breath coming in short gasps. It was now that she was thankful that her father had taught her all he knew of swordplay.

A crowd of people had gathered to watch the king and queen spar, and the men muttered incredulously as Enrin twisted, slick as an eel. She was always of step with him, and she could see the pride in his eyes as he came at her again and again, never relenting. She was tired, her muscles ached, and her hand was slick with blood from where the blunted blade of his sword had cracked her knuckle, but she kept going, striking at him as often as he struck at her. She knocked his blade aside and hit him with her shoulder, throwing all of her weight into his chest, and he stumbled backward a pace, but kept his feet. Their blades clashed again, and then twice more, before they both feignted to their left and came to a standstill, the tips of their blades at each other's throats.  
They both stopped, chests heaving, and Jon smiled. The congregation around them whistled and clapped. Enrin was the first to lower her blade, dropping it into the dirt. "I yeild," she whispered, and her voice was wanting only for him, and Jon knew he would have had her right then and there if there hadn't been so many people around to watch them.  
A voice called his name then, and tey turned to see Sansa there, her great fur cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "I don't mean to interrupt," she said as she strode toward them, her eyes kind, "but Bran has asked for us in the Godswood. He asked that I come and retreive you immediately."  
Jon's eyes clouded with worry, and he took Enrin's hand in his. She squeezed his fingers, as she always did when she knew he needed comfort, and she followed him out of the yard. Sansa led them leisurely, but her back was straight as an arrow, her red hair swinging against her waist. She spoke of Winterfell, of their grain stores, how someone should lead a hunt to bolster their stores of meat. The farmers had harvested the last of the vegetables, she said, and it all should last them a year or more, if they avoided hosting feasts. Jon told her that he could not think of a feast that would need to be held, until the war was over. The thought of it made Enrin's gut twist. They may not need the food, before long, if they were not victorious.

The godswood opened to them and Bran sat beneath the great heart tree, the blood red leaves twisting in the breeze. Arya was with him, and she eyed Jon sullenly, but said nothing. She had not forgiven him for not telling him of Gendry, he knew, and he allowed her to glare at him all she wanted. "I thought it might save time, if we were all here," Bran stated quietly, not looking at any of them. His eyes were on the heart tree, staring into the macabre carved face. The red sap dripped from the eyes ans gaping mouth of the tree, and Enrin felt oddly that it was watching her. She stepped closer to Jon, who put his arm around her waist. The breeze blew again, and she shivered.  
"Come closer, Jon," Bran said, and he joined his siblings at the base of the tree. "Join your hands," the boy said, leaning back in his chair, a great fur blanket covering him from shoulder to toe. They gripped hands, and Bran's fingers felt suddenly stronger in Jon's, as if he was bolstered by the closeness of the weirwood. "I have to show you something," Bran said, and his voice was far away. Enrin felt a familiar tug in her mind. Suddenly, they were not in the godswood.

Arthur Dayne fell in a shower of blood, his once silver armor now stained red. Ned picked up his sword, and the pale blade glowed red in the hot Dornish sun. Dawn, it was called, Ned remembered that well. He had never seen it before up close, and was loathe to admit that he had always wanted to. How easy it would be to take it for himself now, but he knew that he would not. Dawn did not belong to the North.  
Another scream echoed from the tower behind him, the bricks as red as the sand beneath them. He looked to his comrade, who nursed a wound in his hip. Howland Reed waved him on, as his breath returned. Ned turned from him, taking the tower steps two at a time, as he heard the scream again that cut off into a gurgled sob. The pommel of the sword slipped in his hand, the blood still hot beneath his fingers.  
He threw open the door, and the sickly scent of death hung heavy in the air. There was more blood than he had ever see, and it seemed to be everywhere. It puddled on the floor, and stained the blankets. It's rion smell mixed with that of roses, the cloying scent of the blue winter roses she had loved so much. The winter roses that he would often ride into the forest to pick for her, just to see her smile.  
She lay in the bed, and the blood poured from her, soaking the blankets they had covered her with. She looked pale, the skin around her eyes was a dark purple from the strain, but it was her. The same dark hair, the same brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black. Yes, it was her, and he rushed to her side. He dropped Dawn at the foot of the bed, and he reached for her as she reached for him.  
"Ned," she said, and her voice was weak, "is that really you?"  
He gripped her hand, and he wanted to pull her to him, but the blood was coming fast, and there was so much, he did not dare. "Aye," he said, "it's me, Lyanna. It's me, I'm here."  
"Are you a dream?" She asked, and her eyes rolled, her skin hot with fever. Sweat beaded and broke on her brow, and her hair clung to her skin. Her hands were like ice, and steam seemed to rise from her as she gasped for breath. "I'm not a dream," he said, and he smiled down at her, "I'm really here, Ly. I've come to take you home."  
She laughed at him then, a sweet sound but it was full of pain and loss. "I don't want to be afraid," she whispered, and her voice was choked, "I want to be brave. But I'm not." She grit her teeth, the air hissing from between them,and more blood poured from her.  
Ned's brows knit together, and he held her hand to his face, his vision swimming before him. "You are brave, Ly. You're the bravest of them all."  
She screamed again, and Ned thought that the blankets could not hold any more redness. A handmaid came from the corner of the room, her skin the color of golden sand and her thick black hair tied away from her face. "My lady, it is time," she said, in the thick accent of the Dornish. She put her hands under the blankets, pulling Lyanna's legs free, and Ned moved to stop her. "Leave her be!" he growled, but the handmaiden did not move. When she pulled her hands away, they were red. "Now, my lady," she said, but her voice was thick with sadness, "good, yes, again."

Lyanna grunted, her hand gripping Ned's like a vice, stronger than it had been a moment ago. He held her steady, and more blood came, and suddenly a new cry was mingled with hers. It was strong and loud, and Ned wept to hear it. "A boy," the handmaid said, and took the babe to the corner to wash and wrap it. Lyanna sighed, a heaving thing, and her grip went weak in Ned's. She reached for him, to touch his face, and brought his eyes back to her's. They were bright and feverish, wet with tears. "Ned," she said, and her voice was stronger than it had been a moment ago, "you have to protect him. You _have_ to. Are you listening?"  
Ned's hands quivered as she reached for them again. "Promise me, Ned," she demanded, and she sounded so much like her old self that Ned thought she may stand and shake him, like she always did. _"Promise me."_

His eyes were on the handmaid in the corner, and the cries came louder and louder, the wailing did not stop. "Ned," she gripped his face in her hands, and the smell of blood invaded his nose, "Robert will kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. His name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. _Promise me, Ned._ "  
The handmaid brought the babe to him, quiet now, as he lay wrapped in a thick blanket. She placed him in his hands, and Ned looked on him, with his shock of black hair and eyes as dark as Lyanna's.  
"I promise," Ned said, and she sighed, and he held the babe for Lyanna to see, "look, Ly. He looks like you. Come on, come back with me, we can teach him to ride and to fight. Catelyn was pregnant too, you see, and his cousin will be as good as his brother. I'm Lord of Winterfell now, Ly. I'll keep him safe. I'll keep you both safe. Come on, Ly, get up. Come with me."

"My lord," said the handmaid, and her words dripped with tears. Ned looked up then, and Lyanna's eyes had closed. The fear had left her, he knew, and the fear was all that had kept her alive. Her chest had stilled. The baby began to wail again, and his hands seemed to reach for his mother as Ned clutched them both to his chest. He wept into her hair, the smell of the blood and roses choking him. "LEAVE US!" he roared, and the handmaid jumped a mile, "leave us. Tell no one what you've seen here. _No one._ Do you hear me, girl?" The maid only nodded, and she turned to flee the room.

When Howland came for him, Ned had wept all he could. His hair clung to his face in the track of the salt tears, and the baby slept sound against his leathers, and he held his sister to him long after she had gone cold. "Ned," Howland said, and his voice was so quiet and sad that Ned felt he could not bear it.  
They lay her in a shroud, and loaded her into a cart they had bought from a passing merchant. Howland had certaintly overpaid for it, but Ned could not say. He sat on his horse, staring forward, his hands on the reins the only thing that could keep him upright. Howland had tried to speak to him as he drove the cart, his hand on his wounded hip. It had long stopped bleeding, but he limped, and Ned wondered if it would ever heal correctly. The baby in the cart wailed again, and he reached over to calm the boy, who only cried harder. Howland had a daughter of his own who wasn't much older than Lyanna's son, but Ned thought it strange to think it. Lyanna's son lay in the wagon, and he cried and cried, until Ned could stand it no longer. "Give him to me," was all he said, his first words in hours upon hours, and Howland scarcely stopped the cart to hand the babe over to his friend. Ned took the dark haired thing in his arms, and finally really looked at him.

He was Lyanna, his hair dark and already curling the same way hers did. His big black eyes stared up at Ned, and the crying stopped. He held the babe to his chest and spurred his horse forward, and soon he was asleep, lulled by the Dornish stallion's easy gate.  
"What's he called?" Howland asked after a long while, as the sun rose above the mountains before them. The Tower of Joy was long left behind them, and so they turned North, toward home.  
"Jon," was what Ned said, and the name slipped from his tongue eagerly. He had promised. "His name is Jon, and from today forward he is my son."


	17. Chapter 17

**Omg. I'm back! So sorry for the delay in updates, life got in the way and I've been really ill, but I'm feeling better and back at it! Here's just something short and sweet to get me back in the swing of things, chapter 18 coming soon! :)**

* * *

Jon realized he was on his knees, the cold wetness of the forest floor seeping into the fabric of his pants. Enrin had gone down with him, and she gripped him close, whispering his name. He felt as if he was going to be sick.

"You see," Bran said, "you're not our father's son. You're not our brother. You're our cousin."

His voice was flat and insensitive, and Enrin thought she could slap him. "He is our brother," Arya countered, and her voice was fierce, "our father raised him."

"Yes," Sansa agreed, and they both reached down to be level with Jon, who only sat silent, his eyes staring forward.

"There's more," Bran said, and reached for Jon again, but Enrin put herself between them. "Bran, _please,_ " she said, and her words were a chastise.

"Wait," Jon said, his voice weak behind them, "wait, I...I want to see."

He gripped Enrin hard and fast, pulling her down next to him again. "Don't leave me," he whispered, and she shook her head. "Never," she promised.

Bran reached for Jon, gripping his hand, and as quickly as they were back, they were gone again.

* * *

It was bright, and the sun was warm as the stream trickled across the stones. She sat waiting, her light blue silks billowing in the breeze as she dipped her fingertips into the water, enjoying the cool feel of it on her skin.

"Do not lean too far, or you'll fall in."

She whirled, and suddenly there he was, dressed in the black and red of his house, the great three headed dragon smiling from across his breast. HIs voice was musical, sailing over the breeze to her, and she smiled so brightly that she thought her cheeks may split.

He had let his hair free, the way she liked it, and it fell halfway down his back in a thick mane of silver. His deep violet eyes were for her, only for her, and she ran to him. "I've missed you, Rhaegar," she said, and he kissed her forehead. "And I you, my Lyanna," he said, and his voice was sweeter than the harp he loved so much. "I was only gone a while," he said, and smoothed the dark hair back from her face. "Aye," she answered, "and did you find the Maester?"

Rhaegar smiled, and only stood aside as the man in gray robes strode up behind him, the Book of the Seven clutched to his breast. He wheezed slightly, but smiled nonetheless.

"I am sorry for my slowness, Your Grace," the old man said, and Rhaegar simply waved him off. "Worry not, good Maester," Rhaegar said, and Lyanna atook his arm as they stood before the water. The Maester huffed again, straightening the chain around his neck.

They stood before him as he spoke the words, the words that Rhaegar's marriage to Elia was over, and as he bound their hands together, the Maester made Lyanna a princess instead of a lady. And when her Rhaegar kissed her then, her prince, her husband, it felt like nothing in the world could tear them apart.

But, alas, it did.

They lay abed, in the Tower of Joy, and Lyanna's stomach swelled. He placed his hands over it, singing softly as he rest his head over her chest. She smiled and her fingers toyed with his hair. "I think he likes that," she murmured, and her voice was calm as cool water. "He?" Rhaegar questioned, looking up at his wife with his violet eyes, "are you a greenseer? Can you tell me we are having a son?"

Lyanna shrugged, and smiled down at him again. "No, I can't know for sure," she replied, "but I can feel that he is our son, and so I say, he likes when you sing to him."

"And so, I shall continue," her Rhaegar replied, and began his haunting tune again.

She cried when he left her to go to war, to squash the rebellion. "I want to keep you safe," he said, and he kissed her and her belly once before he rode away from the Tower of Joy, and part of her knew that she would never see him again. She wrapped her hands around her belly, and felt her son kick inside of her. "I love you, little one," she said, and a single tear fell to it, staining the blue of her dress ,"I'll keep you safe."

* * *

Rhaegar struck again and again, the waters of the Trident surging around them. Robert Baratheon stood before him, a hulking beast where Rhaegar was lithe and nimble. He looked even larger in his great horned helmet, even if Rhaegar had snapped off one of the antlers just to spite him. Robert struck out at him, his warhammer whistling through the air as he hurled curses at Rhaegar, who only remained silent. The silver prince gritted his teeth as one of Robert's attempts landed against his sword, but the Valyrian steel held fast. "You took her!" Robert screamed again and again, his voice echoing across the battlefield as Rhaegar's men fell around him. "You _stole_ her!"

Rhaegar twisted away from Robert's outstretched hand and struck out with his sword. It caught Robert in the breastplate, sloughing off some of the stag that was painted there. Robert roared, wheeling his warhammer over his head. "She loves me!" Rhaegar fired back, "she _chose_ me!" But that only made Robert Baratheon all the angrier.

He struck out once more, and Rhaegar's foot caught a puddle of blood. The hammer caved in his breastplate, and the chest beneath it. He hadn't even bled.

"Lyanna," he whispered, and he breathed no more.

* * *

Jon's breath came in sharp gasps and he gripped the forest floor, gouging deep rivets in the dirt. Enrin had his shoulders and his sisters knelt beside him. Tears splashed hot down her cheeks.

"You see," Bran said again, and his voice was softer now, "you were never a bastard. You're the heir to the Iron Throne."

Jon squeezed shut his eyes, his head pounding. He stood then, and and stumbled, and then his wife was there with her shoulder under his arm. "It is a lot at once," Bran said, "you may want to sit."

"I don't want to sit," Jon spat, and he rubbed his eyes hard until he saw black spots. Enrin gripped his hands, and then his face. "Jon," she said, and her voice was like music to him, and he pulled her eyes to his and stayed there. He turned to Bran, who was his brother but not. "Is there anything else?" He asked, and his voice was tired. "There is so much more," Bran answered, "but nothing you need to see. But now you know, and I wonder what you plan to do."

Jon took a shaking breath, and shook his head once to clear it. "What I plan do about what, exactly?"

"The Iron Throne is yours," Arya said, and her voice was strong, "we can take it. The Northmen are behind you. The Seven Kingdoms are yours by right."

Enrin squared her shoulders. The thought of it made her uncomfortable, but she said nothing. It was Jon's choice to make, not hers. Jon looked to her anyway, and she only spurred him on.

"I've been given the choice between fire and ice," Jon said, and his words no longer shook, "I choose ice. I never asked to be king of anything, let alone the Seven Kingdoms. Birthright or not, I will have only the North, and leave the Six Kingdoms to Daenerys."

"Daenerys," Enrin said suddenly, and her eyes were wide when they caught Jon's, "Rhaegar was her brother. That makes her your kin."

Sansa nodded, and put her hand on Jon's shoulder. "She's your aunt, in truth," Sansa said, "though strangely you're of an age. No matter," she shrugged, "she's your aunt. Will you tell her?"

"This is too much," Enrin said suddenly, her hand still cupping Jon's face, "let him breathe for a moment, will you?" Jon looked at her in thanks, and he swallowed thickly again. "I will tell her," he decided, "when the time is right. I will tell her myself. Not a word of this leaves this grove, do you hear me?" They all nodded at once, even Bran, who looked to the weirwood again. His eyes were clouded as he sat for moments or hours, they could not tell. Arya and Sansa stood quiet while Enrin sat with Jon on the forest floor, and their eyes searched each other's.

"Jon," Bran said suddenly, and his tone was high with alarm. Jon stood quickly in one swift motion, his hand on the pommel of Longclaw. "What is it?" Jon asked, turning to face his brother, "what have you seen?"

Bran's eyes were wide with alarm, and his skin was even more pale and listless than as usual. "The Night King," he said, and he reached for Jon's hand again, for his words had failed him.

The dragon breathed blue flame, ice dripping from its shredded wings as it whirled. The Night King sat astride him, and he turned him toward the Wall, at Eastwatch, and Viserion screamed as he spat out the blue flames again.

The Wall crumbled.

Half of it fell into the sea, and the rest crumbled to the ground, crushing men of the Night's Watch and free-folk alike as it did. Eastwatch was naught but a shamble, an echo of what it once was, only discernable by the few pieces of errant wood that clung to what remained of the Wall. The army of the dead moved through, slowly, shambling, as the Night King sailed ahead of them on Viserion, wheeling into the sky.

Jon gasped again and his head swam, and he reached for Enrin, who was there immediately, gripping both of his hands. "What?" she asked, and her words were colored with anxiety, "what did you see?"

"The Wall," Jon gasped, and he felt his stomach churning painfully, "the Wall has come down. At Eastwatch. Oh, Enrin." He gripped her hard on the top of her arms, and she gazed at him as if she did not understand. The thought was so unwelcome that her mind was slow.

"Eastwatch," she repeated, and she looked at him as if she were in a daze, her eyes glassed over.

She did not scream like he thought she might, but he watched as her thoughts pieced themselves together in her mind.

She stood so suddenly that she almost knocked Jon over, and she gripped Bran's hand so tightly in her own that he thought she might break it. "Show me my father, please," she asked, and when Bran only looked at her, she nearly shook him. "Please."

Bran's eyes clouded over again and they sailed through the air, ravens crying out over the swift wind. A group of men trudged through the snow, their horses long dead, and the ice formed slowly in their beards. Tormund led the band, both of his hands gripping axes, and his eyes scanned over the horizon before them.

Enrin gasped and fell back, and Jon caught her under her arms. He hauled her to her feet and turned her around. "He's okay, they're okay," she said, and her words were so weak he thought she might faint.

"They are twenty miles north," Bran said, and even now his eyes were not all there, "they should arrive within two days. Edd and his men will meet them in ten miles, and they will come together. The dead will arrive in less than a fortnight." When he turned to Jon, his words were devoid of feeling. "Now is the time to prepare."

Jon could only nod, and turn, as Enrin stood with his sisters, talking quietly. "Don't be afraid," she was saying to Sansa, who shook in her arms, "do not. You'll be here at Winterfell, and the army will never get here. You'll keep it safe while we fight them, aye? And we'll be back."

Arya stood with them, and placed a hand on both of their arms. Her eyes were dark and fierce and full of promise. "I'll stay with you," Arya said, and Sansa looked at her fearfully. "Do not feel like you have to miss the battle for me," Sansa said, and her words were almost full of reproach. Arya only shook her head.

"I'm going to stay and make sure you're safe," Arya said, "I'm going to stay and make sure Winterfell is safe."

Jon looked to each of them, and Enrin reached for him instinctively, her hand searching for his. He took it, and they all stood for a long while, together under the blood red leaves of the heart tree, and the snow fell thickly around them.


	18. Chapter 18

**I think I've been putting off uploading this because we're nearing the end of our story and I don't know if I'm ready for it to be over yet!**

 **But all men must die, so here we go!**

* * *

They trod slowly through the courtyard, arm in arm with each other, Arya and Sansa on either side of them. Bran had remained in the godswood, gazing at the weirwood tree like it was the elixir of life. Jon twisted the edge of his cloak so hard that he thought it may tear. His joints felt stiff and hard, like they were frozen in place. His limbs creaked as he moved like the branches of a dead tree, but Enrin's arm was in his, and that kept him upright.

The winter wind sent her hair billowing about her face, but the castle was warm and well lit as they entered. Supper was being served, the scents of roasted venison and vegetables wafting through the air as the guards closed the doors behind them. The castle was silent, save for the soft sounds of utensils scraping over the rough metal plates. The sounds continued, and yet no one lifted their forks to their mouths. A hush hung over the great hall, and not even the roaring fire succeeded in chasing the chill from the air.

Sansa and Arya started toward the high table, and Jon hesitated at the door. He swallowed thickly, releasing Enrin's arm. Her brows knit together, and he felt his lips twist into the semblance of a smile.

"Go on," he said, the words barely escaping his lips, "I am not feeling quite hungry. Go and eat, I'll go and read a while." He turned and strode from them pointedly, but he felt Enrin's footsteps as she shadowed him, determined not to let him be alone.

She followed him into their chambers, closing the door softly behind them. Jon strode to the window and threw it open, dragging the fresh, cold breeze into his lungs. Enrin wrapped her arms around us waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter, you know."

Jon felt as if he could spit. He whirled from her, pacing in front of the fire like a mad dog on a scent. She stood bereft, her cloak pooled at her feet, the frigid breeze tickling her neck. "Jon," she said, and her voice cracked.

He swept the candles from the mantelpiece, and the flames danced as they sailed through the air, sputtering out as the met the cold stone wall. Enrin winced, but stood firm, her hands balled in to fists to stop them from shaking. "Of course it matters!" Jon shouted, running both hands through his hair and gripping the back of his neck, "Jon isn't even my name."

Enrin took the room in two bounds, taking her husband's face gently in her hands. "That _is_ your name," she whispered urgently, her eyes searching his, "your father _gave_ you that name."

Jon scoffed, pushing away from her. "My father gave me nothing. Ned Stark was not my father." Jon's heart twisted at his words, but he kept his eyes straight, burning into her's. Enrin wanted nothing more than to shake him.

"He IS your father," she said, wishing her voice was stronger. The pain on his face made her gut feel heavy. "He raised you, Jon. He valued you more than he ever valued his honor. He raised you as his own, Jon. _That_ is your father."

His name slipped from her lips again and again, _Jon, Jon._ Enrin was the sadness behind his eyes, the confusion. He had finally accepted what, _who,_ he was, and now she could feel his uncertainty rolling from him in waves.

She wiped a tear from his cheek that he had not felt spill from his eye. He fell into her, his shoulders sagging, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. Enrin welcomed him, sinking low onto the hearth, the fire crackling at their side.

"Our children," he said finally, and she felt his lips brushing against her shoulder as he spoke, "what kind of a name will they have? I'm not a Stark, but I'm not a Targaryen either."

Enrin shook her head. She pulled his face to hers, and kissed him slowly, but chastely. "You are a Stark," she whispered, her words full of earnest, "and you are a Targaryen. You have the blood of a great woman in your veins, and two great men." He began to pull away, unsure. Rhaegar Targaryen started a war for the woman he loved. He abandoned his family, his kingdom, and all of his vows for Lyanna Stark, who was Jon's mother. Jon could not respect him for it, but as his eyes met Enrin's again, he could not begrudge it of him, either. If it came to it, if it really only could end one way, he knew that he would take Enrin by the arm and run as fast as he could.

He pressed his forehead against her again, his eyes shut tight. Jon felt her fingers toy softly with his hair, which had come loose from the leather throng he had tied it with. "I don't know who I am," he whispered, and his fingers dug into the soft skin of her waist.

Enrin swallowed the tears that swelled in her throat. She pulled his face up to hers; her frightened, sweet husband whom she loved so dearly. "You are Jon Snow," she whispered, her thumb skimming over his bottom lip, "that is who you are. You have made the name given to shame you into something great." She kissed him again, harder this time, his lips like fire on hers. "When it is time," she began again, "I will be proud for our children to carry on your name. Snow. Jon Snow, First of His Name."

He kissed her then, harder this time, his tongue forcing past her lips. She welcomed him, sighing into his mouth, her fingers knotted in his hair.

"I want to forget, just for now," he whispered against her, one hand pushing the hem of her dress to her waist as the other unlaced his pants. "Help me forget."

"Yes," she whispered as he sank into her, giving in to the only thing either of them truly had; each other.

* * *

Enrin stirred first, the icy wind drifting across her skin. Jon had left the window ajar, and the sound of steel rang across the yard. Jon was splayed across her, one leg hooked over hers. It felt pleasantly warm, with him under the blankets. She knew that, when he woke, it would be time to crawl out from under them, to be King and Queen. Enrin lay impossibly still, screwing shut her eyes. She wanted to remain here with him for as long as possible. Not a moment later, Enrin's stomach twisted. She sat bolt upright, the furs falling from her shoulders. Jon awoke in an instant and his hands were on her, pushing her behind him, his eyes still blurred with sleep. "What?" He gasped, pressing her into the pillows, "what is it? Who's here?"

Enrin swallowed thickly, gripping him at the elbow. "No one, you dolt," she replied, hauling his arm off her, "I'm fine now, come, lay back down with me." She pulled him toward her, and Jon smiled softly. "You know that we have duties outside of this room," he said, but he let her push him down regardless. He ran his hands down her sides as she hovered over him, pressing her lips to his neck. "Yes," Enrin said, but she kissed him anyway, relishing in the feel of his hands on her skin. Her stomach growled then, sounding across the room like a great lumbering beast, and Jon laughed.

"Come," he said, pulling her from the bed with some of the same old somberness in his voice, "lets get you fed."

* * *

Time seem to pass slowly for them. The army of the dead loomed ever closer, and yet the war felt no closer than the day before. Enrin found herself often wishing that Bran would call out to them, to tell them that the dead were ready and waiting for them. Waiting for death frightened her more than death itself. Jon would not admit it, but he agreed with her.

Daenerys was no good with a bow; her arms were too weak to hold it up for longer than a moment, and Enrin did not have the time to teach her properly. She was better with a sword, but only just; Enrin had her on her back in the muck more often than not, and her silver hair was starting to turn brown with dirt. They agreed that her place during the fighting would be in the sky, burning as many wights as she could, but staying well away from the Night King. "I won't hear it," Jon said as Daenerys protested, "I won't have you losing another dragon if he decides to test his luck with that spear again." The dragon queen said no more after that.

Jon had not yet told her of his parentage, and in truth he did not know what to say. He felt no closer to her than the day before, and he thought better of risking her ire now when the dead were so close to knocking on their doors. He had no want for the Iron Throne, birthright or not, but words could only carry him so far if she were dead set on not believing him. After the war, perhaps, he thought. Even so, a part of him did not think that was fair.

The sun had set on the second day, and the great hall was all but silent as they tucked in for supper. Enrin stared down at the bowl of beef stew Cedrick had placed before her, and her gut twisted.

For once, Jon did not feel much like eating as well, but he dipped a hunk of bread into the broth anyway, chewing thoughtfully. He opened his mouth to remind her, 'Eat, Enrin,' just as the doors to the great hall burst open with a loud clang, making them all jump.

Tormund strode into the room, his red beard frozen with ice. His skin was raw and red from the wind, and his lips cracked and bled as they broke into a smile.

The air left Enrin's lungs in a rush, tears springing to her eyes unbidden as she stood, leaping over the high table in a single bound. She hit her father head on, and he caught her in his embrace, breathing a sigh of relief. "Let me look at you," Tormund said, his voice gruff. He pushed her away, looking her up and down. "You've been eating well," he remarked, and Enrin punched him in the chest.

Jon stood, rounding the table to clasp Tormund's forearm. "It's good to have you back, my friend," he murmured, before they heard more footsteps at the door.

Enrin would have thought the man was a mouse in another life. His face was long and pinched, and the mountainous black cloak he wore only made him look smaller. She felt Jon stiffen beside her, before he stalked forward to pull the small man into a gruff, one armed hug.

"You old bastard," the man said, clapping Jon hard on the back, "what have I missed?"

Jon smiled, only slightly, and reached out for Enrin's hand.

"Edd," he said, "I'd like you to meet my wife and Queen, Enrin."

Edd's eyes widened. He looked from Enrin, back to Jon, and then bowed low at the waist.

"An honor, Your Grace," he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles. Enrin squirmed a bit, but smiled all the same.

"The honor is mine, Lord Commander," she said as he rose, "Jon has told me so much of his time on the Wall. I daresay he would not be here with me if it were not for you and your brothers."

Edd gave her a shy grin, his ears reddening. "He'd have done the same for me," Edd proclaimed, and clapped Jon on the back once more.

They walked toward the high table, where Cedrick and Dennas had set out extra plates of food. Tormund attacked his, finishing an entire flank of venison in a single bite.

The brothers of the Nights Watch ate slowly, the life returning to their frigid limbs, and they regaled Jon with stories of what happened on the Wall after he had defected.

"No one blames you, Jon," Edd told him, when he did not look convinced, "our vows extend only until death. Technically, you did die."

Jon shrugged. "I still feel like I abandoned you," he said, and then he felt Enrin squeeze his thigh under the table, attempting to comfort him. When he met her eyes, he realized that he would have left the Nights Watch a hundred times over if it meant having her.

The doors to the Great Hall thudded open suddenly, and Maester Wolken ushered Bran inside, his face ashen and winded from running. Bran looked pale, whiter than Jon had ever seen. He stood, his back rigid. He gripped Enrin's hand.

"Jon," Bran said, and his voice was as dark as his eyes, "they're here. They're coming."


	19. Chapter 19

**Only a couple chapters left and I'm so sad...**  
 **I don't think I'm ready for it to be over!**  
 **Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The great hall did not erupt like he thought it might.

Bran's words echoed off the thick stone walls, but were met with only silence.

A cold certainty crept into the hall, and it seemed that the very fire had ceased to crackle. The only sound Jon heard was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Each eye in the room bore into him like hundreds of beams of light, threatening to burn him alive. He held his breath so long that his chest felt that it may combust.

He felt her stand next to him, and felt the warmth of her fingers twining with his own. Her presence shook him from his daze, and he turned to look at his wife.

Her eyes were on his, and there was something there that he could not fathom. It was fear, he knew, but it was his own echoed back in the gray sea that met him. Behind Enrin's eyes he saw a steely determination.

"How long until they reach us?"

It was her that spoke then, her voice echoing across the hall like it was a great cavern, ready to swallow them whole. Her stomach twisted this way and that, and she swallowed hard, pushing the bile away. Even Bran, who had showed so little humanity in the time since she met him, sat rigid with apprehension.

"A day. Tomorrow, at dusk," he spoke, and even his voice seemed small.

Something much larger had lain across them then, a blanketed promise that made their troubles seem petty and insignificant. All the times she had fought with Jon about finishing her dinner; Arya being angry with Jon and Gendry, even the truth of Jon's parentage seemed minuscule. Minor. Something to be brushed away.

The threat that lay across them now, she could feel it breathing down the back of her neck and gripping her soul like an icy vice, ready to drag them down with it.

Tomorrow, they may die.

It had never felt more real than it did in this moment, knowing how close the threat was, knowing that in a matter of hours their true enemy would be before them. It had been so easy to prepare, to plan, to laugh. Jon hadn't realized that it had felt like one of Old Nan's stories; terrifying, to be sure, but deep in your soul you thought you'd never have to face it.

Tomorrow, they would.

Jon squeezed Enrin's hand, a fraction of a movement. He met his people's eyes and knew that his own uncertainty was mirroring theirs. He could think of no words; nothing he could say would comfort them now. They stared death in the face, and there was only two ways it could go.

They lived, or they lost.

"We all must sleep," Jon said finally, his voice sounding rough as sandpaper, "tomorrow, at dawn, we begin preparations."

His eyes met Enrin's again, and she was watching him. Her other hand was clasped in Sansa's, who had her free arm wrapped around Arya's shoulders. Even Bran had come to rest beside Arya, his fingers cautiously resting on her forearm.

He drank in the sight of them, imprinting it to his memory. He wanted to remember them like this, whole and alive and together, no matter what followed tomorrow's dawn.

"Spend time with your families tonight, my friends," Jon said, not taking his eyes from Enrin's, "for a red sun tomorrow rises."

* * *

The door to their chambers closed with a small click, but it sounded thunderous in the silence. The room was dark and frigid; no one had come to light the fire. Enrin was sure the serving people were somewhere in the castle, huddled close with their families and loved ones, and the ones who were alone were drinking. She could not begrudge them that.

The cold had seeped into her fingers as she struggled with the long wooden matchstick on the flint. It sparked, but nothing more, the short lived embers pricking the skin of her hands.

Jon pried it from her frozen fingers and struck the match deftly, tossing it into the maw of the hearth, filling the room with a dusky glow.

Jon placed his fingers on his wife's chin, turning her head to face him. They both opened their mouths to speak, but faltered. There was so much and so little to say in this moment.

"I love you," Jon said first, moving his hand to cup her face.

"I love you," Enrin echoed, because it was the only thing that mattered now.

"I had something made for you," Jon said after what felt like an eternity. He strode over to his desk, where a package lay wrapped in his thick, black cloak.

Enrin tried to smile. "The whole world is about to come to an end, and you still thought to get me a gift?"

Jon smirked, but it did not touch his eyes. "Just open it."

She unwrapped the package slowly, unsure of what lay before her. It was large and seemingly heavy, jutting out in all directions.

A breastplate lay before her, almost the same as his own. Where the heads of his direwolves sat on either side of his neck, hers were made of the glittering black stone they'd found in the caves. Beneath it, boiled brown leathers in the colors of House Stark, blue and brown next to the blinding silver of the breastplate. Silver chain mail followed next, impossibly delicate. She stretched it between her fingers, but it would not give way. Tears pricked her eyes as she turned to thank him, but he shook his head.

"There's more," he whispered, motioning for her to continue.

She moved aside the armor, and what lay beneath it shocked her the most.

It was a sword, the pommel hewn from steel and wrapped in thick, dark leather for grip. Atop it sat the same black direwolf's head, it's eyes carved from yellow citrine. The blade itself, though, demanded the most attention.

It was smooth, deadly sharp, glimmering in the light of the fire. The black dragonglass was lighter than any steel as she gripped the hilt in her fist, raising the sword to shoulder level before her. She swung it once, twice, testing the weight. Inside the scabbard, twenty arrows with heads made from the same material, accompanied by an ornate bow carved from dark, oiled wood.

Enrin set the sword back on the table, tears now spilling from her eyes. "This is too much."

Jon only shrugged. "You're a Queen," he said simply, "a Queen should have weapons that befit her."

"And the armor?"

He laughed then, a small sound.

"Normally the Queen would remain in the keep, in the safe room with the other women and children. She would keep their spirits high and give them hope."

He took a step forward, closing the gap between them.

"But I know you, and if I didn't let you fight with me...well, in truth, I'm more afraid of you than of the Night King."

It was her turn to laugh, but it caught strangely in her throat. Her hands shook as she reached up to touch his face.

"Thank you," she said, and she kissed him slowly.

* * *

The fire crackled before them, so hot that a sheen of sweat beaded across their bodies. They gripped each other, breathless, their legs intertwined under the blankets. Enrin propped herself up on one elbow, her eyes on Jon's face. After a moment, he cocked an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

She reached out gently, beside herself, tracing her fingers over the line of his brow bone.

"I'm memorizing your face," she murmured, her fingers gliding over the paper thin scar over his eye. "I don't want to forget it, no matter what happens."

Jon's blood ground to a halt in his veins. He watched her, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, the soft curve of her neck. He placed his lips there, slowly, deliberately. He wanted nothing more than to tell her it was going to be okay, that they would return and rule the North together for the rest of time, and no danger would ever threaten them again.

They both knew they were not naive enough to believe that.

"I love you, more than anything, I love you," he whispered against her skin, before his lips claimed hers again.

* * *

She opened her eyes as the first light of dawn broke through the window, watery and gray. Enrin blinked to clear the mist from them; her sleep had been fitful, an hour at most. She had dreamed that wolves and lions and dragons had battled in the snow, each unwilling or unable to yield. They fought and fought until blood wept from them and the snow had fallen so thickly that it covered them and turned them all to ice. Their sickly, white eyes had stared into her soul, jolting her awake.

Jon had lay awake as well, his mind curiously blank. He labored all night to form a plan, a course of action, something. But the longer he tried, the slicker his sense became, slipping away and avoiding him in the night.

He felt Enrin's hand in his, and squeezed.

A soft knock on the door jolted them both, but it was Enrin who leaped up first, pulling a thick dressing gown from the chest at the foot of their bed. It was long and detailed, made from the softest silk, one she never wore. She tied it tight around her waist as Jon pulled his leathers on, sliding his feet into his boots.

Daenerys stood beyond the threshold, three goblets and a pitcher clutched in her hands. She wore a simple shift dress of thick, black material, and her silver hair had been braided into a high bun on the top of her head. Enrin stood aside to let her pass into the room.

"Wine, at dawn?"

Daenerys shrugged, setting the pitcher and cups down on the desk. "We do not have time to be proper, but we do have time to drink."

Enrin looked to Jon, who only shrugged and accepted the goblet Daenerys handed him, swallowing it all in one gulp. The silver queen refilled his cup.

Enrin sipped hers slowly, perched on the edge of the bed. The expression on Jon's face was one she knew well; the chewing of his lip, the far-away look in his eyes. Jon was toying with something.

"Dany," he said finally, after a few long moments of them drinking in silence together, "I've got to tell you something."

Jon launched into the story that Bran had shown them, from the beginning of everything. His true parents, how Ned had raised him from birth, the blood in the bed, and Ned's promise to Lyanna. He talked and they sipped, until his words had exhausted him and his cheeks were pale. Daenerys sat watching him for several long moments, her cup pressed to her lips thoughtfully. Enrin gripped Jon's fingers, fear lancing through her, until Daenerys finally spoke.

"What does this mean?" she asked, swirling the last dregs of her wine in a circle. Jon looked confused.

"It means…nothing, and everything. It means that we're not as alone in this world as we thought we were," he replied, his shoulders shrugging, "and as for your kingdoms…I don't want them."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed, not maliciously. One silver brow cocked in confusion.

"They're yours," she said, and her voice sounded sad, "by birth…the Seven Kingdoms _are_ yours. It would be foolish of me to be angry, with how much stock I've put into the claim being mine by birthright. I'm just…Jon-…"

He had raised a hand to silence her, his eyes closed.

"I relinquish my claim to all kingdoms, save for the North," he said, and his eyes were open now, his words stronger, "I will leave the care of the remaining six to you, Daenerys Targaryen, my aunt by blood."

Daenerys' eyes were soft as she gazed on him then, and she reached out for his hand. She clasped it in hers, a soft smile touching her lips.

"I am glad," she murmured softly, "that if I am meant to have kin left in this world, it is you."

They sat for a long while, talking quietly in turn. Daenerys regaled then of stories from her childhood; the house with the red door and the lemon tree outside her bedroom window, her husband Drogo and his gentle ferocity, her brother Viserys and his fearful cruelty. She said that Jon would not have liked him.

As dawn settled into the low sun of the late afternoon, Enrin looked out the window into the courtyard beyond. The horizon had grown dark; swirling black clouds threatened to swallow them whole. She turned to them then, a bleak expression on her face.

"It's time."

* * *

Daenerys had braided her long, thick hair into a bun at the base of her neck. It felt strangely heavy, like she couldn't hold her head up straight.

Her chainmail tinkled gently as she pulled her leathers over it, clinching them tightly around her waist. She turned to see Jon waiting with her breastplate in hand, ready to help her buckle it on. It fit perfectly, as she knew it would.

She strapped her sword to her belt and her bow across her back, her hands shaking. Jon grasped them in his, pulling her to him.

Their embrace was desperate, almost cloyingly so, and they pressed themselves so close to each other that Jon felt they may melt together as one.

He pressed his cheek to his wife's hair, inhaling the scent of rose oil and wind and freedom, of Enrin. He held his breath for what felt like an eternity, willing his mind's eye to remember that scent, before it was marred by blood and smoke and fear.

Enrin held him close, her arms around his waist, her fingers locked around her own wrists like a vice. She dared anyone, man or wight, to try and take him from her.

"I'll kill them," she said aloud, pressing her face into Jon's neck, "I'll save you, I'll save our people, I _swear_ it. No matter what, I'll kill them all."

She inclined her head to look at him, into his deep black eyes that were wet with sadness.

"I _will_ save you," she said again, as if trying to convince herself as well, and pressed her lips to his.

* * *

The courtyard was full, and yet as silent as the grave. Even the Dothraki, who had been joyous, raucous even, were muted. They stood at attention as Daenerys wheeled overhead on Drogon, Rhaegal shadowing his every turn.

Jon almost leaped out of his skin when Dennas tapped on his shoulder, bowing low. "A rider, Your Grace," he said, stepping to the side. Jon's blood froze.

Jaime Lannister stood before him, his once grand armor tinged with dust and wear. His hair had gone almost completely gray since the last he'd seen him, which felt a lifetime ago.

"Ser Jaime," Jon said, and reached out to grasp the man's forearm. Jaime returned his grip, his eyes pinched and grave.

"I was beginning to think your sister had gone back on her word," Jon said, allowing relief to color his tone. At that, Jaime gave him a sad smile.

"She had, Your Grace," the man said, and Enrin faltered at Jon's shoulder.

"What?" She snarled, her hand finding the pommel of her sword.

Jaime made no move of defense, his shoulders sagging as he shrugged them.

"She's dead, Your Graces," he replied, addressing them both, "she had gone...rabid. She was...I _had_ to. I-..."

His voice trailed away, but his mouth remained agape, searching for words he could not find. Enrin felt Tyrion shoulder past her, and she let him go, to stand beside his brother.

"Speak no more of this, Jaime," he said gently, taking his brother's large hand in his small one, "do not condemn yourself. Come and sit with me inside, while the better men go to war."

Jaime shook his head then, as the ground shook and Daenerys descended from Drogon's shoulder to stand beside them.

"I've brought with me what men remained loyal," Jaime said, looking apologetic, "most have fled. I've brought seven thousand."

Jon's jaw clenched. Even when their ranks bolstered by the addition of the Lannister men, the army of the dead still had twenty thousand on them.

Enrin seemed to echo his thoughts.

"It is still seven thousand more than we had this morning," she said, turning back to the saddle of her horse.

Jaime turned to Daenerys, who stood silently at Jon's shoulder. Reaching into the bag at his hip, he pulled out the rough hewn iron crown that had once sat upon Cersei's head.

"My Queen," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, before he dropped the crown at Daenerys' feet and knelt.

Her eyes flitted from Jon to Enrin, who stood looking on her expectantly. Everything she had waited for sat at her feet in the snow, a frigid wind whistling through the trees.

"Rise, Ser Jaime," the silver lady spoke, her voice shaking only so, "there will be time for crowning after this battle has been won."

Rise Jaime did, dipping into a low bow before he clapped his brother on the shoulder and turned on his heel. Then men that had traveled with him wheeled, falling into formation beside the Dothraki. Daenerys turned from them as well, climbing on to the back of her dragon and wheeling back into the sky.

They had said their goodbyes already; Sansa had wept and Arya had looked pale, but determined. Bran was the last one they saw, in his chair at the mouth of the keep.

"I'll be flying with you," he said, his eyes already following Rhaegal as he gained and ebbed through the sky. His eyes went cloudy then, and Rhaegal screeched from above them.

Jon swung into the saddle of his black war horse, his hands gripping the reins tighter than he meant. The horse snorted in protest, shaking his head. The horses were already nervous.

The wolves stalked between them, all seven on high alert, their ears perked forward. The pups were of size with their mother now, and one dark gray male was almost as large as Ghost himself. Sansa had told them to take Winter as well, but Enrin had refused. The she-wolf had her loyalties now, and Enrin shuddered to think what would become of Sansa if the wolf was not there to protect her.

Jon wheeled his stallion, his breath mingling hot in the frigid air. He led the company out of the gates of Winterfell, and the women and children did not cheer as they once did. They watched their King, their fathers, brothers, sons and husbands go, the icy fingers of dread gripping them all.

The procession was slow; the snow had begun to pile along the well worn roads, making the going slick. One horse went down a mile out, it's leg twisted sickeningly. Jon himself had to silence the beast with Longclaw; he considered it their first casualty.

Winterfell shrank behind them as they trekked North, toward the Wall. Around them, the air seemed to thicken with the promise of bloodshed. The clouds above them grew blacker and blacker as they advanced. Two boys defected, streaking off into the woods, throwing their swords down behind them. Enrin and Jon watched them with a calm detachment; they could not begrudge them the need to survive.

Enrin's mare stopped suddenly, her gray withers quaking. Enrin spoke calmly to the horse, her fingers pressed in to her neck. No amount of gentle urging could spur the beast forward; the mare's eyes were wild with terror, her nostrils flaring as the scent of the air hit her. Jon dismounted, as did the rest of the party. Unbidden, the horses all turned tail and fled south, back to Winterfell.

Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with Enrin, one hand on his sword. The snow fell thickly here, almost blinding them.

Jon and Enrin reached for each other's hands, grasping tightly; words were somehow not enough, and too much now.

In the distance, something screeched.


	20. Chapter 20

**Don't freak out. Don't kill me. Bear with me, I promise.**

* * *

They came slowly at first, shambling down the snowy embankment one or two at a time, their bony hands clutches around rusted swords and spears. Jon's eyes never left them, but he felt Enrin's hand warm in his, and he turned to look at her for barely a moment.

Her eyes met his, and he uttered three simple words.

"Stay with me."

She unsheathed her sword, her knuckles white.

"Always."

Jon released her, and raised Longclaw high above his head. He screamed from deep in his belly, so loud and so long he thought his throat may break open. He screamed for his parents who's folly made his life what it was; for his siblings who may not make it through the long night; his brother Robb who had died for the country and the woman he loved; for their unborn son who's light had been snuffed out before it had a chance to shine, and for his father, his true father who's head had been cut off for trying save them all.

As he brought his sword down through the skull of the first dead man, he remembered everything this world had taken from him. As Enrin shoved her sword through the belly of a man who looked only recently dead, he feared it may try to take her too.

The dead man fell off her sword, the blue light dying from his eyes. She did not bother to wipe clean the black blood from her sword; ten, fifteen, twenty more wights raced toward them now, their teeth gnashing. She struck again and again, and each time she counted. _One, two three_. She heard Jon's easy breathing next to her. _One, two, three_.

The frozen mist cleared before them as the two armies met with a sickening crunch. Enrin felt a tug on her leg and looked down to see a child, no older than a yearling, with a great gaping hole where it's mouth used to be. Beside herself, she shrieked, shaking it off and putting her boot through its head.

She and Jon stood back to back, rotating in a circle, their weapons hacking and slicing in all directions. She saw Jorah a ways from her, throwing a wight down so hard that the skeleton burst apart as it hit the ground. She quickly knocked an arrow and put it through the eye of a woman next to him, who's teeth had been poised for Jorah's throat.

Drogon and Daenerys wheeled high above them, fire spitting from the dragon's mouth. What he burned, was replaced by double that; Jon could see the Night King beyond the disarray, atop his skeletal horse, raising the dead as they fell.

"Burn the bodies!"

Rhaegal spun above them, his answering roar deafening. Daenerys followed his lead, pressing Drogon lower to the ground to concentrate his fire on the dead below.

"I need to get to him," Jon shouted, motioning with his blade. The Night King had dismounted and now stood poised over them on the embankment, two other White Walkers on either side of him.

Enrin spared a glance in their direction, parrying the rusted spear of a dead man before her. She shoved her sword into his throat, pulling it away again with a flourish.

"I'll cover you, go!" She shouted back, and they raced together toward the incline of the hill. Her eyes swept over the writhing mass below them.

Her father and the Hound stood shoulder to shoulder, cutting down wights one after another. Enrin called to him, and their eyes met.

"Go!" Tormund screamed, his axes connecting with a woman's arm as she clawed for his face.

They fought up the embankment, black and red blood showering around them. _One, two, three._

The first White Walker met them halfway down, his cracked lips pulled back over yellow teeth. He wailed in their direction, his sword raised high. Jon struck low, at his knees, while Enrin staved off a blow from his weapon. Again and again he came at her, his hands almost a blur. He wailed at her again, his face inches from hers, and she screamed back with the effort of holding him off.

Jon shoved his sword deep into the opening between his breastplate and his leg armor.

The Walker froze, his eyes seeming to glow even brighter. He screeched once more, and vanished into dust. Below them, ten thousand wights fell, the blue light fading from their eyes.

The next one came for them then, bigger than the last. He kicked aside a pile of bodies, and they rolled so their eyes stared up at her as the creature advanced. Cold, dead eyes. Children's eyes.

Stygir stared up at her, almost balefully in death. Accusatory. How had she let them get so far ahead? She had been so preoccupied with her own torment, that she'd forgotten to make sure that the young ones were safer at the back of the throng.

She was pushed back as Daenerys and Drogon swept low, bathing the bodies in fire. Stygir was gone from her then, but she still felt his eyes boring into hers.

The fire had created a barrier between them, and the creature stopped, gnashing his teeth and clicking his tongue like a beast. Their eyes met, and she saw nothing. Nothing but a glowing blue light, but it was not life she saw there. It was a pure, burning hatred, that she now felt echoed back in her own eyes.

She leaped over the column of flame, her sword raised high above her head. She bellowed her rage, her hurt, her fear; Enrin brought her sword down on the Walker with a crushing blow that sent it stumbling backward, feet looking for purchase in the snow.

She came at it again, driving low, only to have her blow blocked by the edge of it's spear. It hissed at her, pressing back her advance. She gripped the edge of her blade, placed flat against his, and pushed. She felt the dragonglass break the skin of her fingers, her blood slick on the blade. They stood like that together for what seemed like an eternity, her teeth grinding together as she forced all her weight on him.

The Walker's boot caught a patch of ice below them, and he slipped for only a fraction of a second.

Enrin pulled away, driving her sword up as she did. She watched the blade pierce through its mouth, its protests cutting off in a gurgle.

The Walker dissolved into mist before her, and countless wights all dropped, ceasing movement below them.

For a moment, it seemed like they could win.

She heard Jon's labored breathing, and spun around.

The Night King had him locked in a stand still, blocking each of Jon's downstrokes with his spear. He came down again and again, hacking at the weapon before him. He felt Enrin behind him, swinging her blade through any wights that were left around them. The battlefield had gone almost silent; he could hear his heartbeat and hers, beating in a steady rhythm.

The spear broke under his final blow, snapping in two, sending shards of black wood into his eyes.

The Night King put his boot to Jon's chest, kicking him away. He skidded in the snow, Longclaw spinning from his fingers, coming to rest at the Night King's feet.

Enrin shoved the last dead man away, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could taste the scent of death in the back of her throat. The field below was a wash of fire, surging and blackening everything beneath the snow.

She saw Jon standing, weaponless, his chest heaving.

The Night King took Longclaw in his hands; she watched as he sent it spinning blade over hilt, headed right for Jon's chest.

She watched her husband close his eyes.

Enrin saw her destiny clearly in that moment. She realized, as her feet carried her like wings over the blood soaked earth, that she could not be the one to kill the Night King.

It _had_ to be Jon.

She hit him with all her weight and, instinctively, he caught her by the tops of her arms. Her breath had been taken from her, and she saw the horror in his eyes as she looked at him, her husband, the man she loved.

"No," he breathed, his grip tightening on her so that it hurt, "no! What have you done?!"

She tore her eyes _from_ him, and she caught the silver shift of the blade where it had pierced her chest. She felt her heart laboring, torn, and her limbs had already begun to go numb.

The blood was warm as it spilled from her; she was so cold.

Jon dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to hers. She saw his lips moving, but she could not make out what he was saying.

It didn't matter now.

"Finish it," she said, and she tasted the blood in her mouth again, hot and red and alive.

"You have to, promise me." He wasn't listening, she needed him to listen. "Jon, I love you, I love you, finish it. Promise me, Jon."

 _Promise me, Ned._

He was staring at her, watching her, his eyes were filled with tears. There was no time, _no time_. She felt her heart beating again.

 _One, two, three._

"Please," he said, and his voice was so sad that she would have given him anything if she could, "stay with me."

It was so cold. _One, two, three._

She pressed her hand to his chest; she could feel his heartbeat there, strong and ready to fight. That was all that mattered.

"Always."

 _One, two..._


	21. Chapter 21

**I told you not to freak out ;)**

* * *

 _Three._

The brightness was disorienting.

Enrin gasped, her lungs inflating painfully. The sun was warm above her as it beat down on her skin, almost uncomfortably hot in her armor. Her fingers gripped the blades of grass as she sat up, her eyes coming into focus.

She lay beside a river, it's cool blue waters making a tinkling music as they rushed over the rocks. It was shallow here, and she leaned forward to wash the blood from her face. It was nice here, peaceful, the scent of flowers sweet in her nose. And yet, she could not relax. Enrin felt something important tugging at her, pulling at the back of her mind.

"Hello, Enrin."

She jumped, rolling to her feet. Her hands flew to a weapon that was not on her hip.

It was a girl, not much older than her, with long brown hair and brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black. She knew those eyes.

"I know you," Enrin whispered, "I saw you in a dream."

The girl before her smiled, smoothing her blue silks as she strode forward. Something in that smile made the tugging in her mind more powerful.

"I know _you,_ " the girl told her, "I've been watching you for a long time."

Enrin squinted. Something, something was gripping at her, pulling her, screaming for her attention. Her chest hurt.

"Jon..."

She breathed, and the pulling grew more insistent. Her eyes met the girl's once more.

"Jon," she said, her voice loud in the quiet of the clearing, "where is he? Is he alright? Is it over?"

The girl held out her hand, her face a calm mask.

"I can show you."

Enrin reached out slowly, her hands shaking.

Their fingers touched, and suddenly it was like she was watching from above.

Jon knelt over her, and her eyes stared at nothing. Longclaw protruded from her chest, her armor slick with blood. Enrin's hand fell slowly from Jon's chest, and he gripped her, shook her, called out her name.

"Enrin! _No!_ Look at me!"

His hand was on her face, shaking her again, but more blood only poured from the wound in her chest, turning Longclaw's blade a dark crimson.

The wolves were howling a haunting song, their voices carrying over the wind. He felt their sadness deep within him, but the anger was all his own.

Jon slid the blade from his wife's chest with agonizing slowness, as if it still may hurt her. Gently, he reached down to close her eyes. Her body was limp, but her hands were still warm in his.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as he pressed his lips to her forehead.

He heard the Night King before he saw him, the wind whistling as he twirled the sharp edge of his spear. Jon erupted, white and hot and full of rage.

He picked up Longclaw from the pool of his wife's blood, and as he did, the blade burst into flames so hot they threatened to overcome him. Above them, Drogon and Rhaegal tumbled in the air, their talons locked into Viserion, who spat blue flame from deep in his throat. Below him, the battle stopped.

The Night King paused, his spear coming to a halt in his hands. Jon ran straight for him, swinging his great flaming sword as he did. He had no time for tactics, no patience for evasive maneuvers.

His wife was dead, and if she was no longer with him, Jon saw no excuse to keep trying to survive.

He placed a blow that the Night King was scarcely able to block. The beast before him grit his teeth and dug in his heels. Jon spat in his face.

He struck again and again, each blow parried, but only just. Where his arms would have begun to ache, he felt a renewed vigor; his rage filled him with a fire that nothing else could.

The flames of his sword licked at his hands, but he felt the fire as a strange caress rather than pain. He struck left and right, left and right, feeling the Night King's movements grow more desperate and sloppy.

The Night King parried him low, and Jon kicked out with his boot so forcefully that he sent the Night King skidding on his back in the snow.

Jon leaped.

He straddled his enemy, pushing down with all his weight.

"This is for my wife."

He thrust his sword downward and it cut through the Night King's icy skin like butter, the flames licking at his armor. The Night King screeched, low in his throat, his eyes blazing a bright blue.

Jon felt the shards of dragonglass splintering inside his enemies body, driving his sword further, spearing the Night King through to the ground.

He did not evaporate like the others had. Instead, the blue light of his eyes died and faded away, leaving them a muted, mossy green.

Jon rolled away from him as the Night King seemed to melt before his eyes. His skin sloughed off until it was pink and mottled, like someone had spent too much time in the cold. His face was long and pinched, wrinkling before his eyes. His mousy red hair turned gray and broke, falling in a smattering of wispy strands across his forehead.

The creature was no longer a creature; he was just a man, who's blood ran black and cold from his chest. He reached toward Jon, his thin, sickly arms shaking.

Jon strode over to him, and the Night King's bony fingers clawed weakly at his legs. In another world, another time, he may have felt pity for him.

Instead, Jon reached down and drove the sword deeper into the ground.

The Night King shuddered, and breathed no more.

Below him, the remains of the dead army dropped, their limbs exploding from their bodies. Viserion's cry was cut short, dying in the air. He fell, hurtling toward the ground. The dragon landed on the mountain with a resounding thud, black smoke still pouring from his nostrils.

There was no cheer, no exaltation. A hush fell over the valley, and Jon turned away from his flaming sword, back to Enrin's body.

He pulled her into his lap, his hands slick with blood. He touched her face, gently, tracing his fingers over the scar on her forehead, the one she had gotten the first day they'd been married.

Around him, the survivors stood, and together they began to weep.

Enrin almost pulled away, but the girl held her fast.

 _"There will come a day after a long summer when the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword, and that sword shall be Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes. He who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him."_

Enrin shuddered at her words, and pulled her hand away, but she could not shake the vision from her eyes. Jon held her close, and his grief threatened to swallow them all whole.

"Tell me your name," she demanded, tearing her eyes away. The girl looked at her slowly, measuredly, chewing on the inside of her lip.

"You already know."

Enrin turned to face her then, her eyes picking out every similarity. It was uncanny, now that her mind was clearer.

"Lyanna."

She smiled, the true smile that had made Enrin fall in love with her son. She knew the severity of her situation now, it was clearer in her mind than anything.

"I've died, haven't I?" She asked, but she already knew the answer. Her eyes traveled to her husband again, who held her body fast, his face pressed into her neck.

"You gave your life so that my son could live," Lyanna said, that sad smile still on her lips, "I cannot thank you enough."

Enrin swallowed thickly.

"Is this the afterlife?" Her eyes traveled around the valley. It was all grass, dotted with apple trees and bushes of fine blue roses that gave the air a sweet, cloying scent. Lyanna inhaled deeply.

"Yes, and no," she replied, "I would say it's more...somewhere in the middle."

Enrin cocked an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing.

"Speak clearly, please," she said, attempting to stave off her frustration. She'd never had time for riddles.

"Some of us die, and go straight on to be at peace," Lyanna began, striding slowly to Enrin's side at the water, "your mother was one of them."

Enrin's heart constricted. Her mother hadn't waited for her. She had hardly known her, yet still the thought made her sad.

"You had your father," Lyanna spoke, her voice quiet and sincere, as if she had seen Enrin's mind, "your brother had no one. She knew that you were safe."

Enrin looked down again, to where Tormund had fallen to his knees. He struck the ground with his axe again and again, bellowing his rage and sorrow into the sky. Her heart ached.

"Others," Lyanna continued, "had chosen to stay, to watch their loved ones continue to thrive without them, only choosing to go on when all were dead and had gone to be at peace as well. Fewer still, could not go on, because their business...their purpose, you could say, had not been fulfilled."

She looked at Enrin and gave her a knowing smile.

"When I came here, Rhaegar was waiting for me. He thought I was his purpose. Days, years, had passed and when we still remained here...never sleeping, never eating, simply existing...he knew that he was wrong."

She looked down then, her eyes resting on Jon.

"It's never clear...not until the moment arises. When they stabbed him, killed him, I am afraid to admit that part of me was overjoyed that I would finally get to meet my son."

Her hand reached out, instinctively, as if to stroke Jon's hair.

"He was angry, when he got here. We told him everything. I don't think he ever forgave Rhaegar, in the end. He was the one who sent Jon back when the Red Woman called for him. And that left...me."

Lyanna looked up again, and grinned at the look on Enrin's face.

"I know it is confusing," she said, and her eyes were so familiar that Enrin had to look away.

"I'm choosing to stay here," Enrin said, the words rasping in her throat, "I don't want to...I _can't_ leave him alone in the world. Even if he can't be with me." Her eyes met Lyanna's again.

"I can be with him."

Lyanna looked on her again, a sad smile playing on her lips. She heard him then, in the quiet peace of the valley around them.

 _"Enrin, please. Don't leave me, come back to me."_

Enrin raised a hand toward him, her fingers reaching for him. She had never felt more alone. Every part of her longed to comfort him, to tell him that she was there, even if he couldn't feel her.

Lyanna made a face something between a grimace and a smile, and yet still her eyes were peaceful.

"Sweet girl," she whispered, resting her hand on the back of Enrin's head, pulling her close.

"I told you; we do not know our true purpose until the moment arises. I thought, perhaps, that it would be Jon. That I had to wait here for him to guide him on, if he passed before you. There would be no force that could convince him to go on without you. I see it now, so clearly. I was wrong."

She put her hands on Enrin's shoulders, holding her at arms length.

"My purpose is you."

Enrin almost recoiled, her brows knitting together. "I don't understand."

Lyanna almost shrugged, smoothing the hair from Enrin's forehead, the way Jon always did.

"Perhaps none of us ever will. I fear that our time is short, and to make you understand could possibly take forever. I'm not sure I understand it either."

It was Lyanna's turn to look vexed, but when she looked back at Enrin, there was peace in her eyes once more .

"I have to send you back now. Both of you."

She rested her hand slowly, deliberately, on Enrin's stomach.

She felt it then, deep within her. A steady, tiny heartbeat, of a rhythm with her own. It was a fluttering thing, so light she thought she'd imagined it.

"I..."

She placed her hand on top of Lyanna's, her eyes wide and filled with wonder.

"There is no greater thing," the girl said, "than to feel the life of your son inside you. It is all I can do, the last thing I can do, to send you back so you can raise your son."

Lyanna took Enrin's hands once more, clasping them tightly.

"I can just...go back?"

At that, Lyanna frowned.

"It is no small thing, to return from death," she said, "you will bear the scars of the Night King's blade for the rest of time. It will haunt your days, and your dreams. You can go back, but the recovery will not be easy."

Lyanna watched her measuredly.

"Here, you could have peace. There is no promise with the living; you could go back now, only to return in a week, a month, a year when a sickness could take you. Jon may still pass before you, in the years to come, and you will have to go on without him. Is it a risk you are willing to take?"

Enrin looked at her for a long moment, her teeth chewing at her lip. Her hand dropped to her stomach again.

"And our son?"

Lyanna almost shrugged.

"If you do not return, he has no chance of living. If you do..."

Enrin raised her hand, silencing her.

"Send me back. Send me home."

Lyanna nodded, and walked with her to the spot of flattened grass, where Enrin had awoken. They stood together or a long moment, each watching the water bubble across the stones.

"Is there anything...anything you would like me to tell him? Jon?"

Lyanna smiled, but it was a sad thing. She watched the water again, the warm breeze whistling past them.

"A great many things," she said, finally, her voice melancholy, "but I am afraid that you will not remember me when you return."

Enrin swallowed. The idea made her sad.

"Do not weep for me," Lyanna said, brushing her fingers over a single tear that had leaked from the corner of Enrin's eye, "I can go now to be with my husband, and my father and mother and brothers. I know that I will see you and my son again, when it is time. I hope it is many years from now."

They stood ready, facing each other once more. Lyanna pulled her close, wrapping her arms around Enrin's shoulders.

"Take care of my son."

Enrin pulled away, clasping Lyanna's fingers hard. She willed herself to commit this moment to memory, so that she wouldn't forget. The roses, the sound of the river babbling over the stones. Lyanna's hands, solid in hers.

"Always."

Lyanna took her face in her hands, steadying her. Then, gently, she pressed her lips to Enrin's forehead.

* * *

Her ears awoke first, the sounds muted, as if she were under water. The acrid scent of smoke and blood filled her nose, and she was dully aware of an ache somewhere deep within her, a burning that begged for relief. It was her chest, she realized, her lungs laying dormant and deflated, begging for air.

Enrin gasped, her body rigid. Every square inch of her hurt, but nothing more than her chest. As her lungs inflated, her head cleared.

Jon jumped, nearly spilling her from his lap. His eyes were red and wet, grief painted plainly in the lines of his face.

Enrin reached up slowly, painfully, tracing the lines on his forehead.

"What did I tell you about worrying so much?"

Jon stared; he was sure his eyes were deceiving him. Her skin was cold, blue still, but the soft edges of pink had begun to return around her lips. Her eyes were open, watching him, a small smile playing on her lips. Her teeth were stained red with blood, but it was her. His wife. Enrin.

He touched her face, his fingers feather light on her skin. It hurt, but she didn't have the heart to tell him so.

"I don't understand." He breathed, his hand cupping her face gently. He felt as if he were in a dream; as if she would disappear from him in a moment, leaving him in a shroud of mist.

Her breathing was labored, but she was breathing. It hurt to speak, to move, but the pain lessened with each breath she took.

"You don't have to understand," she whispered, resting her hand over his, "you just have to take me home now. I want to go home."

Jon smiled, that beautiful, shining smile that had captured her so long ago. He lifted her gently, and she pressed her face into his neck, her hand on his chest, his heartbeat strong beneath her fingers.

"Aye," he said, "let's go home."


	22. Epilogue

**Today the story ends, my friends. I've been putting off uploading because I think I just wasn't ready. Jon and Enrin's story ends...but maybe their line doesn't have to? More things to come!**

 **Thank you for everything. We'll see you soon ;)**

* * *

Five years had passed, and still the ground was frozen.

The wind whispered through the trees as it always did, the tinkling of the ice in the branches making a sweet music across the courtyard. She could see everything up here; perhaps that's why Jon liked it so much.

He had his men sweep the battlements for her daily, to prevent the ice from forming. After all this time, he still treated her like a doll that would break at the slightest provocation. She sighed, but couldn't begrudge him that.

The sound of the small laughter reached her on her lofty perch on the battlements. The dark haired boy grinned up at her from the ground, his hair tousled by the wind.

He looked so much like Jon that sometimes it made her heart ache. His hair was dark, almost black like theirs was. The only difference was his eyes; five years and it still shocked her to see them staring at her from across the courtyard.

They were a blinding, light amethyst; the only evidence to who he truly was.

When they had returned from the Great War, her recovery had been hellish. Even still, when the wind blew colder than usual, her chest would seize and pain would slice through her, gone as quickly as it had come. Enrin had been bedridden, or so they'd told her; she had made it to the Great Hall for dinner every night with her husband, who loathed to be away from her.

Tale of their victory had spread amongst the North and the remaining six kingdoms like wildfire. More and more people flocked to Winterfell; to bend the knee, some to just get a look at them. Daenerys had flown for King's Landing almost immediately, as soon as she had ascertained that Enrin's beating heart wasn't just a fluke.

It was a month after the War that she'd felt a sort of quickening in her belly. She'd sought out Maester Wolken immediately. The Maester had confirmed her suspicions; she was with child, their first heir.

She told Jon that night, alone in their chambers. She'd still had thick bandages wrapped around her chest over her healing wound, draped in the silk dressing gown she hardly wore, but the constraints of tight clothing made her uncomfortable.

He had sat with her, his expression worried.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said, pulling her into his arms. She'd been fidgeting all day, her concentration elsewhere.

"I'm pregnant."

She'd said it quickly, as if afraid of his reaction. Jon stared at her for a few long moments, his face impassive.

"With child?" He asked, almost stupidly, looking at her as if he'd just seen her for the first time.

When she nodded, he'd swept her up in his arms so quickly he almost knocked them both down.

She smiled now, to remember it. Her pregnancy had not been an easy one; her sickness lasted almost all of her day, and toward the end she was under strict instruction not to leave her bed. She had listened to the Maester, for it was not just her life at stake this time.

When their son was ready to come into the world, she labored a day and a half. The pain was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, but she had taken it in stride, almost breaking Jon's fingers each time a contraction tore through her. He'd insisted on being with her the entire time, although it was custom for most noblemen to go off hunting when it was their wife's time. For her people, the men would post themselves outside of the hut, guarding the door from anything that would be alerted by the birthing screams and the smell of blood.

They had not discussed his name; Jon had thought he was a girl, and he was so sure that Enrin almost believed him. Deep within her, she knew it was their son.

When the Maester laid him on her chest, his eyes opened, gray meeting lilac. He did not cry, only watched his mother with a kind of innocent curiosity, his eyes blinking in the light. Enrin felt her heart may burst.

"Eddard," she said, and looked at Jon for his approval. Her husband had only nodded, tears in his eyes.

Having a son was something Jon had never known he needed. The moment Ned was old enough, Jon had put a sword in his hand and strapped him to the saddle of a horse. Enrin had been worried.

"Let him be a baby a while longer," she'd begged her husband, "let him be a child."

It was Ned's third name day, and Jon had gifted him his own dragonglass blade, the size of a large dagger.

Jon had looked at her, and his eyes were sad.

"He can be," he'd told her, "only for a time. He's a prince." He'd shrugged, taking his wife's hand and kissing her knuckles.

"Princes don't get to be children for very long."

She could not begrudge him, though; Ned had his time for his friends and his play. As she watched him now, he raced across the courtyard below her, kicking up dirt behind him. Four fat wolf pups flocked after him on short, stubby legs; they'd only just opened their eyes, and yet all of them followed as closely to Ned as they could. They were all a stark white, with golden yellow eyes, so similar one could hardly tell them apart. They had their father's coloring, but their mother's eyes.

From deep in the forest in the distance, Enrin could hear the voices of their brothers and sisters dancing over the wind.

She felt him before she heard him; the soft prodding of his presence behind her woke her from her memories. How long had she been standing there?

Jon stopped beside her, leaning against the battlement, his shoulder brushing hers.

"I see you've taken my place as the watcher on the wall," he joked, and she leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. His beard was rough under her lips.

When she pulled away to look at him, she noticed it was beginning to gray around the edges. She reached out with her fingers to brush the small smattering of hairs lightly. Jon reached up to grasp her fingers, pressing his lips to her palm. "What is it?"

His brows were knit together again, those wrinkles forming on his forehead. Worried, always worried, she mused. No wonder he was going gray at thirty.

"Nothing, my love," she replied, leaning against him again. Black or gray, she loved him still.

Jon wrapped his arms around her, his hands splaying over her stomach where it had begun to swell.

"Girl or boy?" Jon asked, resting his chin in the curve of Enrin's neck. She leaned into him, pulling his cloak around her as another breeze whipped past them. She placed her hands over his, breathing deeply.

"A girl," she decided, and she felt his chuckle tumble deeply in his chest.

"You're trying to kill me," Jon remarked, his eyes scanning Ned's every move as he raced back and forth across the courtyard again and again, the wolves trotting after him.

They watched their son for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

"Daenerys has written," he said, and leaned away from her to pull a scroll from the sleeve of his jerkin. Enrin took it, remembering all too well the lilting curvature of Daenerys' writing.

"She's given birth," Enrin remarked, her eyes flying over the page, "a girl. Rhaella."

Jon nodded. He'd already read the scroll, of course; Dennas had delivered it to him personally.

"Read the rest," he said, and his voice was almost grim.

Jorah and Daenerys had flown off on Drogon together, almost immediately after Enrin had woken from her wound. Jaime Lannister and his army had followed on horseback, trailing the great dragon slowly. They had crowned her Queen of the Six Kingdoms almost immediately, with Tyrion Lannister serving as her hand.

Daenerys' and Jorah's wedding had been a quick one, without the usual splendor of a wedding befitting a Queen. Enrin had been unable to travel, and Jon had refused to leave her side. They'd send Sansa in their stead, and while there, Daenerys had agreed to annul the marriage that still bound her and Tyrion.

Enrin smiled at her husband. "What with the grave face then?" She asked. "This is happy news."

Jon pursed his lips.

"Keep reading."

Her brows knit together as her eyes fell slowly to the page again.

She had reached the end, and then read it twice more, just to make sure that she hadn't gone mad.

"She wants to wed Ned to Rhaella as soon as she's of age," she said, and her eyes found her boy again, her sweet boy, rolling in the dirt with his wolves.

"To unite our houses," Jon finished for her, looking almost cross.

"No."

Jon looked up at his wife, and her gaze was ice and steel, the same look she'd had in her eyes the first time she'd stepped foot in Winterfell.

"No," Enrin said again, and she folded the letter gently, "I have a great love for Daenerys, I do. I know that their blood relation is so distant that it may not matter but...I can't decide for him. We can't decide for him."

She took Jon's hand, and he held it to his lips.

"I agree," was all he said, pulling her close to him.

He enveloped her in his cloak, his arm wrapped around her. His hand rested on the soft curve of her belly.

"When they're old enough," she began again, and this time her tone was hopeful, "when they're both of age, they can decide for themselves."

She felt Jon's nod against the top of her head. They stood for a while, silent, watching their son frolic in the open courtyard. The wind blew again, ice against their skin, and Enrin shuddered.

"What is it?" Jon asked, tightening his grip on her.

"It scares me," she murmured, her eyes tracing every step Ned took, "to love something that pain can touch."

Jon held her fast, pressing his lips to her hair. His heart twisted.

"Everything that ever threatened us," he said, "is gone. We killed them. We killed them all."

He pulled away to face her. His hand pressed against her belly again.

"You're safe. He's safe. We are safe now."

"Mother! Father, come look!"

It was Ned's high pitched squeal of joy that brought them back from the past, shuddering, clutching to each other like one might fade away. They made their way down the battlements as fast as Jon would allow, his fingers locked around her elbow on the off chance that Enrin slipped.

When they entered the courtyard, the wolves swarmed them with hot, furry bodies pressing against every side.

Ned raced to meet them, his fur cloak billowing out behind him. His cheeks were pink with exertion and glee.

"What is it, son?" Jon asked as Ned launched himself from the ground into his arms. Ned pointed imperiously, to a small patch of dirt near the gates.

"Over there, Father, I'll show you!"

They walked slowly, hand in hand, Ned clutching to Jon's shoulders. The sky was beginning to turn pink in color; the sun would soon set, and the scents of dinner wafted to Enrin's nose from the open windows of the keep. Her stomach snarled, their daughter doing somersaults in her womb.

"There, look!"

It was just outside the gates of the castle, agains the stone wall under a blanket of snow so thick that one may have missed it if it weren't for her eagle-eyed son who had been playing there moments before.

Jon knelt with his son in his arms, brushing the snow aside.

It was a bush, so small that they even wondered if it could be called that. The leaves were small and waxy, glittering with dew as the snow melted away from the heat of their breath.

"What is it, Mother?" Ned asked, his voice high with excitement. In his five years, he had barely seen a blade of grass. He'd only heard of the rolling green hills of the North in stories told to him before his bedtime.

Enrin reached down slowly, her fingers like feathers over the branches. A small bulb protruded from her fingers, blue as ice, and Jon leaned Ned closer so that he could see.

"It's a bush," she said, and her voice was as childlike in her wonder as his, "a Winter Rose bush."

In her belly, their daughter did another somersault.

"What does it mean?" Their son asked, reaching out to gently run his fingers over the bulb in his mother's hand.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. He was all his father; the same curly black hair, the gentle curve of his nose. His cheeks were red with exertion and excitement, his purple eyes dancing. Jon held Ned close, whispering in his ear, showing him the other bulbs that had begun to protrude from between the leaves.

So many things had changed in the six years since she had met Jon; the fire that had burned in her had dimmed, replaced by other things. Softer, warmer things. Love. Safety. Duty. She was a wife, a mother, and a Queen.

Enrin had never thought this was where her life would take her. She remembered her ire at being asked to marry Jon; she hadn't wanted that life. She had never thought of herself as anything more than what she was; a warrior, ready to fight and die in the heat of battle. She would have let them take her if she'd had to. If that were to be the end of it all.

Jon had given her something to fight for. Jon had give them hope.

"It's a sign, my love," she whispered, kneeling next to them in the snow. She felt Jon's free arm snake around her waist, to rest against her belly where their daughter lived. She felt the warmth of his fingers there, where they belonged. Where _she_ belonged.

"Spring is coming at last."


	23. An Update from Me to You

Hello, old friends.

It's been quite a while since we've last spoken. I just wanted to take an opportunity to thank everyone who's still been reading, following, and favoriting this story. I've started many fics in my life, but this is the only one I ever finished. That's because of you guys. Over the last several months I've gotten a lot of PMs asking if Jenrin's (thanks to whom ever came up with that ship name!) story is over.

So I'm going to hit you with a little announcement.

There's a sequel.

It's happening.

You can expect the first chapter hopefully sometime this week.

It's been a long time coming. Jenrin will have a loose feature...but this one isn't centered around them.

I hope you guys love the next one as much as you loved this one, and I hope I can love writing it just as much.

See you soon!

Xx, your author


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